


Fusco, Plain and Small

by Microdigitalwaker



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-11
Updated: 2018-12-11
Packaged: 2019-01-08 10:02:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 37
Words: 24,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12252123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Microdigitalwaker/pseuds/Microdigitalwaker
Summary: Formerly Finch, Plain and SmallAlternative universe. The idea is that no matter what, Finch, Reese and Fusco are destined to meet and fall in love.





	1. Chapter 1

Finch watches through the kitchen window as Leon hitches the tall bay gelding to the buggy.  _Tries_  to hitch Pixel, who is as calm and forgiving a creature as he's ever met, Bear excluded.

Filling the tea kettle, Finch winces as Leon slips on the cobblestones that line the courtyard. He may be imagining things but he would swear the horse is laughing.

The kettle filled, Finch hesitates in front of the two stoves.that fill the east end of the kitchen: one, a state of the art hunk of gleaming stainless steel with a larger CPU than Finch's first laptop. The second is less than half the size, fitted to burn both wood and coal. He's planning on distracting himself this afternoon by performing some heavy duty maintenance on the Machine, the sort of job that really taps the farm's power reserves even with the additional solar panels and the recently installed trio of windmills that bracket the row of lomardy firs next to narrow lane that extends from the farmhouse's red sandstone front steps to road; the house is situated as far from passersby as can be managed, which suits Finch.

"I know you love your privacy, Harold, but you're practically a hermit," Nathan Ingram is oft to proclaim over the very kitchen table that Finch is setting for tea. Nathan, whose front porch is separated from the town's main thoroughfare by a just a narrow strip of rice lilies bordered by several dozen creamy pink conch shells. The friendly blond spends his days, fair and otherwise, on said porch, coding on a laptop during the rare moments he isn't gossiping.

Harold places Nathan's cup and saucer on the table, catecorner to his own setting. He chuckles, imagining his best friend, who will certainly eaten by curiosity at the sight of Leon driving the buggy instead of the farm wagon - on a weekday morning, no less. Yes, Nathan will be arriving shortly and won't he be surprised at Finch's news?

"Leon?" he says outloud, practicing as he fills the delft pitcher with heavy cream and scoops his famous cherry preserves into a cut glass bowl. A newly baked pound cake and watercress sandwiches are brought from the pantry; Harold is a famous cook and Nathan's appetite is equally famous, but if thiis festive spread isn't enough tofill the corner's of his best friend's belly, it isn't for lack of trying. Satisfied, he speaks again, just under his breath as though he can hardly believe his own words.

"Why, Leon is driving into town to meet the afternoon train. To fetch my bride."

*

Lionel Fusco trotted up the stadium stairs to the blocked-off nosebleed seats that he called home.

"Why so high?" the injured stranger gasps as Fusco urges him to the relative safety of his little nest.

"Zombies don't like going up hill," Fusco replies, proud of his hard-won knowledge; he hadn't manage to survive for over a year on the top floors of the Chrysler Building without picking up a thing or two. Judging by his black on black 'uniform', including a sharply honed broom handle along with a clip-less Beretta, Fusco had guessed that the stranger knew his way around the block, too. 

A thought suddenly occurs; what if the stranger had been injured outside the confines of the stadium? What if he'd been injured by zombies? 

"You bit?"

He shakes his head, blood dripping with the motion. "Just kids."

That's what Fusco had thought. Based in the former home of the New York Jets, New Jersey Survivor Center #3 had recently accepted a group of Ferals, kids ranging from six on upwards. Kids who had managed to survive on their own at the cost of their humanity. Not all were that bad off. Some of the young ones were already adopted by adult survivors, ones that had probably lost their own kids in the uprising of the undead. 

The kids with promise made up of about half the Ferals, leaving the ones that were plain sociopathic and the ones who had developed some sort of fucked up Stockholm Syndrome, believing that they were zombies, themselves. Those, the Zs, were secured in the visiting team's locker rooms, under lock and key. That left just the crazies, who could pick any lock and who helped themselves to any food or shiny thing they could get their dirty little mitts on. They liked beating the crap out of unlucky sons-of-bitches who didn't see them coming.

From the smell of him, sharp whiskey beneath the body odor and blood, the guy had been drunk when the pack found him. Otherwise, he'd have run or hidden, right? Or fight back instead of taking their licks, which was how Fusco found them.

It wasn't as though the guy had a death wish or something.

It was only later, when Fusco had stripped him down, sacrificing one of the few bottles of rubbing alcohol he'd found to disinfect his wounds that he'd realized that the death wish idea had probably been true. Hell, who hadn't thought of taking a dirt nap these days?

Fusco had kept his questions limited to Want some water?' or 'Do you think it's broken?' until he'd gone over every inch of his visitor. Not a bite mark on him.

"Why didn't you fight back?" he'd asked, because he'd seen with his own eyes how the guy hadn't moved except to expertly disarm the few that had sticks or bricks or broken bottles.

"I might have killed them," he whispers, already half asleep as Fusco leans over to pull the one thin blanket over them both.


	2. Chapter 2

Finch had expected his announcement to elicit a surprised reaction from his oldest, dearest friend and in retrospect, perhaps he should have been prepared for a classic Ingram spit-take. Wiping fragrant tea from his glasses using a voluminous monogrammed handkerchief from his breast pocket, he arches an eyebrow and huffs.

"Really, Nathan? Aren't you the one who's been telling me that I shouldn't live alone?"

  
Nathan wipes his mouth. "You shouldn't live alone. Why, Olivia and I were gone for four months and look what happened!"  
"I was fine."

  
"No, you were thin as an alley cat and pale, like you hadn't stepped outside the entire time."

  
Nibbling the corner of a square of shortbread to buy time, Finch finally replies. "I had Leon."

"Fat lot of good that did you," Nathan retorts, his loud and passionate voice ringing against the low, exposed beams of the ancient kitchen. "I know for a fact that he ended up spending so much time in town that he began renting a room at the boarding house. When he was _supposed_ to be living on property, guarding you from zombies and making sure you had three square meals a day."

  
"He and I came to a mutually beneficial agreement," Finch replies defensively. Leon had been hired to manage the property, to manage Finch, but it soon became apparent that the younger man's talents lay elsewhere.

"He was an accountant before and damned good with computers. I've arranged for him to head up the Food and Essentials Warehouse in Cleveland."

"Well, make sure he doesn't abuse your good nature to line his pockets," Nathan grumbles. In truth, Finch has had this concern himself, for Leon is something of a magpie, except....

"He won't. Not if the Machine has anything to say about it."

The kettle on the stove begins to whistle. Nathan retrieves it, freshening their pot of tea. "Look, Harry - I'm happy that you are getting a companion..."

"A wife," Finch interjects somewhat peevishly.

"That's what startled me," Nathan continues. "A wife? HARRY???"

"What? You know my tastes are..." Finch hesitates defensively, " _Flexible_."

Nathan chuckles. "Maybe but I know something else."

"What?"

Leaning forward, Nathan drags a finger through the large drop of tea next to his saucer, moving his finger purposefully against the bright white tablecloth.

  
It takes a second before Finch can make out the image, then... "Nathan Ingram!"  
It's a crude but undeniable drawing of a penis. An erect penis.

  
"Face it, Harry - you love dick!"

  
"I...I..."

  
"You love dick. You used to pounce on mine like it was Christmas morning and they were the only present under the tree. You would salivate just thinking about my hard pecker. Ass or mouth, it didn't matter and yeah, speaking of ass, you never said 'no' when I asked you to fuck mine."

  
Red faced, Finch picks up the uncut pound cake and marches to the pantry, where he places on a high shelf. He purposefully locks the door after him. _The nerve of that man!_

  
At Finch's return, Nathan looks mildly defeated and definitely concerned.  Popping up from his chair,  he captures Finch's wrists and kisses his forehead.

Finch exhales, what sounds like a sob muffled in the taller man's shirt.

  
"I just want you to be happy, Harry," he croons, rocking Finch tenderly. "Anyone you choose will be fine with me."

  
"It's not as though everything is set in stone," explains Finch when he comes up for air. "She has a three month contract to say here with me, at Finch Farm. If we find we aren't compatible, she can leave sooner. There's even a farmstead available if she doesn't want to return to the resettlement camp. It's a win-win situation."

  
"Good," Nathan replies, visibly relieved. He reaches over to the platter of cookies, snagging a handful which he stuffs into a pocket of his bib overalls.

"Thank you for the tea but I need to get going. Olivia will be bringing in the herd for milking and she'll want my help."

  
"She's too good for you, Nathan," Finch laughs shakily. It's true - the formerly-pampered billionaire's wife had found herself after the Apocalypse and now managed not only her rather reformed husband but the largest and finest herd of dairy cows in the newly-formed North American Commonwealth.

  
"I think she'd agree to that," Nathan agrees, heading for the door. He turns, putting on his battered straw hat, his expression thoughtful. "By the way, what's your intended's name?"

  
Finch's blushes. "To be honest, Nathan, I haven't a clue."


	3. Chapter 3

That first morning together, Fusco wakes up to the smell of smoke, an acrid combination of burning plastic and clothes. 

Simple woodsmoke is still common enough inside the stadium; old habits die hard and the smoke from a handful of cooking fires mixes with the rising sun to form gorgeous little clouds of pollution despite the solar grid that provides free power for all. 

Would have set Lee scrambling for his inhaler,  Fusco thinks distantly; to examine the thought would have been too painful still. 

An emergency bell rings once and after a brief hesitation, twice more.  Fusco grimaces.  One bell is a call for the rescue brigade, an uncontrolled fire.  Two bells....

Fusco sits up from the cardboard-covered wooden palets he calls a bed, remembering for the first time that he's got company.  With trepidation, he touches the strangers bruised shoulder; a flinch confirms what Fusco had hoped- that the man had survived the savage beating.  Otherwise, Fusco chuckles grimly, there might have been another two bell alarm, warnimg the survivors of a new set of hungry undead.

Someone had died,  probably when one of the dozens of makeshift huts dotting the stadiums playing field caught fire.  Fusco freshly appreciates the solitide of his shelter, which is far less prone to the danger of errant sparks.

Initially, he had picked the site of his shelter carefully. In the stadium's nosebleed seats not only because zombies naturally follow the line of least resistance, downhill, but also because it afforded a generous view of the makeshift resettlement community. Never a fan of being caught off guard, it wasn't chance that Fusco had spotted the injured stranger, who huddling half-conscious n the shadows surrounding the visiting team's goal posts.

 _Damned Ferals_! As soon as Fusco's got his guest out of his hair, he planned on giving Greer, the de facto mayor, a piece of his mind.

*

Rifling through his Army surplus duffle bag, a damned lucky bit of loot, Fusco scrutinises its contents. After the briefest of hestitations, he pulls out his second best t-shirt (Dixie Chicks) and a pair of drawstring sweat pants. He examines a pair of boxer shorts, shaking his head. The guy, Fusco guesses, might have been slim, B. Z. (before zombies) but he was damned near gaunt now and there was no way that a pair of those undershorts wouldn't slide to his ankles like an exhausted hula hoop.

The guy suddenly wiggles onto his side, tucking Fusco's prized pillow beneath him like he owned the place. Fusco doesn't mean to hiss but as the blanket drifted off the stranger's waist, exposing  newly exposing more skin that was more purple than pale pink. He might have died last night with me sleeping next to him. Fusco, a fucking Zombie super sized meal in the making, 'to go'.

  
He wonders at his recklessness at bringing the guy up here instead of dropping him off at the door of clinic.  Fusco isn't a coward but had lacked the courage, after what he'd done to Lee, to take himself out of his misery with the last shot of ammo in his service revolver.

Had last night's impulse been an attempt to atone or the potential end of his barely muted grief?  Fusco had seen more than his share of 'death by police officer'.  Maybe he'd subconsciously been trying for 'death by zombie'? 

His attention drifts, just long enough for a set of large, calloused hands to wrap around his neck, a frantic pair of eyes boring into his own.

  
"Where's Leila?"

  
"Morning to you, Sunshine," manages Fusco, trying good naturedly to smile as his vision starts to blur.


	4. Chapter 4

Nathan's already half-way out the door and he pulls Finch with him, soundlessly depositing the genius on the top step. In an effort to compose himself or perhaps because he could have used a slice of that untouched pound cake, Nathan pulls a piece of short bread from his pocket and takes a bite. A nearby hen, the red one that Harry swears is a paragon of avian intelligence, saunters by and begins pecking at Nathan's bootlaces.

Smiling, the tall Texan crumbles the remaining half of his cookie to the ground, to her delight.

"You'll spoil your appetite, Gertrude," Finch says in a pinched, miserable voice; the bird doesn't listen.

"Do you know anything about this woman?" Nathan asks finally. He reaches into his pocket again, tossing more treats to hen and her late coming sisters.

"I didn't want to know," Finch replies peevishly - as if a golden man like Nathan had ever had to advertise for a mate.

"Explain," suggests Nathan generously, ignoring the unpleasant tone.

Finch takes a deep breath. "I allowed Ernest take care of it."

"You let your infernal contraption choose your mate?" Nathan rxclaims, coughing on crumbs that went down the wrong way.  Red-faced, he sits down next to Finch, who pats him on the back with greater force than was strictly neccessary.   

"First, I'd like to remind you that she is your infernal contraption as well as mine," Finch says firmly.   It's true and Nathan knows it; why just the other day he was heard bragging about his talented 'daughter'.

"She knows me better than anyone else, save you," Finch continues, resting his head against the Texan's formidable shoulder.  Nathan grunts, apparently  mollified.

"This was months ago.  I gave her a brief outline of who I might like and she did the rest."

"Wait, what did you say?" Nathan asks, his interest piqued. 

Finch looks uncomfortable.  "First, that I thought I'd like to be matched with a woman. Uh, that I like curly red hair as well as salt and pepper.  Body type wasn't important...."

"Your kidding me!"

Finch sighs. "A person doesn't have to be blue-eyed, 6'2" and muscular to catch my eye."

Nathan preens. "Doesn't hurt."

"You know very well that I thought Arthur's....stocky physique was quite attractive. "

"You mean his fat ass and chubby thighs," adds the suddenly disgruntled Nathan.

"And his height," Finch continues, a litte dreamily. "Short enough to tuck his head beneath my chin."

Quietly, they ponder this.

A few minutes pass, long enough for the hens to move on to more fruitful pastures.

"But why do you want a wife?"

Feeling defensive,  Finch tries not to bristle. "Perhaps because it never worked out with the men that I dated."

"Awww, Harry.  I'm sorry."

Finch can see he means it and quite forgets to tells his best friend the only other directive that he gave the Machine, that children are welcomed.

*

The hands wrapped around Fusco's neck relax a fraction, enough so that the former-NYPD detective can observe that the stranger is straddling his hips and that the guy's eyes are both gorgeous and bat-shit crazy. Fusco kinda adores being straddled and the heat pooling in his groin is a fair indication that those eyes are an unexpected turn on; so much so that things are going to get embarrassing in a minute.

The stranglehold is released enough for Fusco to inhales enough to croak,, "Who da fuck is Leila?"

The stranger, with his wildman beard and greasy, tangled hair doesn't answer, merely softly collapsing atop Fusco with a wheezing sigh.  Fusco appteciates the the warm weight; it's been a such a long time.. Living in the shelter, he's got food, shelter, hell - even a job cooking for the flea bitten lot of survivors. He's got plenty of everything but someone to look out for.  Someone to hold. And now the guy is molding his scrawny/muscular bod against him, like Fusco's  a life preserver in shark infested waters.  He is whispering soft little puffs of half asleep apologies into Fusco's ear.

Alarmed, not only by his body's response but by the welling of emotion flooding his arid heart, Fusco breaks.

"Guy, you better lay off or somethin' gonna happen!" he pleads, even as his flailing arms meet across lean muscles and bumpy scars. The stranger rears up enough so their eyes meet again and damned if he doesn't look like an angel.

"Sorry," the guy says, wincing as he rolls off of Fusco, pretending not to notice that tbey are both hard.   It's the closest Fusco's gotten to getting laid in over three years.

"Look, today's my day off so you can lie here all you want," Fusco announces as the stranger's eyelashes start to flutter shut and begjns to snore. 

"It'd be nice to get your name.Sleepy Time."  Not to mention the whole Leila business. But Fusco sympathises as he watches him try to stifle a jaw-cracking yawn; he's been beat up, too, and knows how it can knock you on your ass.

"Name's Reese."

"First name or last?"

"Just Reese."

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

"Name's Reese."

"First name or last?"

"Just Reese."

Fusco laughs because of course he's goes by one name, like Cher or Madonna.  He glances down at his tented shorts.  "Uh, sorry 'bout that."

 Judging by the way Reese is filling out his borrowed sweat pants, he doesn't seem to mind.

"C'mon, let's hit the head," Fusco offers, extending his hand.  Reese weighs heavy until he gets his legs beneath him and as hey trudge up the stadium stairs.  "Tell me about this Leila chick," Fusco adds, reaching for a bar of extra strong soap, stamped with a little birdie and the initials, I.F.T.

*

 The bruises from the day before have blossomed into a Rorshack nightmare of purple and black but Reese doesn't complain as Fusco scrubs.  
"She's about nine months," he tells Fusco, thin lipped with pain.  
"About?" asks Fusco, who remembers Lee's birth like it's engraved in his heart.

Reese rests his head in the tiles. "I found her, okay? Found her lying in a cardboard box in the middle of Time Square."

  
Fusco starts on Reese's hair, working at the knots.

"The ma wasn't around?"

  
Reese shakes his head.  "She was brand new. Still with the unbiblical cord. Lying there like a restaurant take away box, with a herd of zombies a half a block away. I grabbed her and ran.  Yesterday,  we found this place. Leila is sick, coughing and a fever.  They took her, said she had to go to the clinic."

"That's good," Fusco says, trying to sound reassuring.  The doctor there, Madani, is top notch but he's heard nasty rumors about newcomer little ones being taken but never returned.

"I got the feeling that they won't give her back," Reese says.  "I look like crap.  Even worse since those brats jumped me.  I can't prove she's mine...."

Reese kept a baby alive. It's kind of mind boggling, when you think it, the complicated logistics of keeping a newborn alive -nevermind the zombies. Deeply impressed, Fusco has tell him the one thing that makes sense.

"Sounds like you're her dad to me."  

  
Reese shivers beneath Fusco's soapy rag. He makes a broken little sound that's almost lost in the patter of luxuriously lukewarm water. He grabs Fusco, kissing him hard before sliding to the floor.  He puts Fusco in his mouth.

"Hey!' Fusco yelps, scrambling back as soon as Reese drops him. "Hey, there's no need for that!"

Reese stares for a minute, droplets of water stading on his lashes like tiny diamonds. "Just want to thank you.  I saw the way you looked at me and thought...."

Fusco turns off the shower. He helps Reese to his feet.  Making a habit of it.

Fusco is a little red, and not from the shower.. "Yeah, you figured that part right," he says slowly,  with a deliberation that comes from an internal fight to not use Reese's pretty mouth. "But there's no need to thank me. Least, not like that."

"No?" asks Reese, eyeing Fusco, whose dick hasn't evolved a conscience.

"I wasn't always a good guy. Then, I lost someone. Now I'm...I'm trying. Taking advantage of you wouldn't be right."

Reese looks dumbfounded, opening his mouth and shutting it.  Fusco takes his elbow, guiding him outside, into the light.

***

   
In some corner of Finch's mind he''s aware that he's hyperventilating but in his panic alll that he can think of is dick.

  
Long and lean! Short and thick! Dark coronas and throbbing, veiny shafts!  
He recalls the first dick that he had ever touched, the one belonging to the very man who is grabbing his wrists, pulling them away from his crotcb.

Just before the start of winter break, freshman year, he and Nathan had given in to the feelings that had been building for months. Nathan, the golden boy, had been gold all over except for his dick, which was dark pink and both long and thick. An epiphany to Finch, whose experience with dicks besides his own had been limited to furtive glances and well-hidden magazines.  And now, Finch has asked for a bride!

  
"No, Harry," Nathan says sternly, trying not to bruise Finch's wrists. "You can't have me," he continues, more kindly. "Olivia and i are committed to staying monogamous. Its the least thing i can do after the hell i put her through."

"What about the hell you put me through, Nathan Ingram," Finch shoots back.

"Guess I had that coming. I'm sorry... I'm sorry I couldn't be everything for you."

Finch whimpers.. "What's going on, Nathan? What's wrong with me?"

"What's wrong with you is that you are human, like the rest of us.  Not a machine nor a god."

"I'll have you know that I've never professed to be either!"

Nathan looks at Finch fondly. He runs his fingers through his friend's ridiculous cockscomb of mouse and silver hair.

"But Harry, you saved the world."

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please be warned that Fusco briefly mentions his son's death in this chapter, but not explicitly.

"Quit squirming."  
Reese squirms, rinsing the disposable razor he's using now that the majority of his beard has been hacked off.

"Don't tug so hard. It hurts!"

  
Fusco puts down his scissors with an amused cluck. "If you'd taken a minute to run a comb through your hair...."

He returns trimming Reese's tangled mane. It's kinda nice. Reese is sitting between his knees, naked as a jaybird in the warm light.  Before sitting on the stadium steps closest to his 'house', Fusco had spread a few old towels and a blanket.  It's quiet inside the stadium, still early. Plenty of time to get the guy looking his best. To look respectable. 

"I'm afraid they'll try to keep her," Reese had admitted after a breakfast of stale crackers and expired GatorAde.  Reese had barely put a dent in the meal and Fusco had to bite his tongue to keep from fussing.  He's probably too used to going without so that the baby can eat.

"That's why I got drunk last night. Leila's been sick and I look like a hairy scarecrow. I was afraid that they'd think I wasn't good enough. That they'd give her to a nice family..."

"You are a nice family and if anyone tells you different, they'll hear from the Fusco."

(clip-clip)

   
Reese's shoulder tense between Fusco's thighs. "She's had a cold for a few weeks. Been getting worse."

Fusco frowns. The common cold doesn't work like that, even for babies. "Sounds serious."  He feels Reese tensing up again. "But we've got some great docs. They'll set her right in no time."

"Speaking of time?"

"The Clinic opens at 10 am.  We got a little over an hour so we have time to go to the store and pick up some supplies."  Fusco sighs, melancholic, remembering late night diaper runs and how Lee.... He shakes the memory away.

"You needs some new clothes, too."

Reese turns around, frowning.  Half his face is pale and hairless and sculpted by angels, the other half still covered with silver-shot bird's nest.  "Lionel, you've already done so much."

Goosebumps ripple along Fusco's forearms and it takes a minute for him to place that feeling that had served him so well as a cop, both crooked and good.  He guesses he's been out of the game too long but it comes to him a few seconds later.  He'd introduced himself as Fusco but here Reese ("Just Reese") is saying Lionel, Li-O-nel, all drawn out and sweet.

He doesn't want to do it. 

Taking a deep breath to help steady his hand, he places the sharp of the scissors against Reeses throat.

Reese's razor holding hand freezes, mid air.

"Hate this," Fusco growls.  "I hate this but you need to tell me how you know my name."

"Hold on Detective.  I'm going to reach for my shorts, nice and easy."

Is it strange that Reese's soft, whisper voice gives Fusco's junk a jolt?  And it's not as if hes got anything to lose.  Fusco moves the scissors and Reese reaches for the borrowed pair of shorts about a foot away.  Pulling out a battered leather wallet, he tosses it to Fusco.

"Son of a bitch!" Fusco snaps, real anger coloring his words.  His wallet!  The only picture he has of Lee residing within.

Reese has the courtesy of acting ashamed.  "Sorry. Ah, old habits..."

Fusco rifles past his detectives badge, past useless credit cards and dollar bills that are just good as toilet paper.  He hears a moan, not caring that it comes from himself.  Behind a little clear plastic window is Lee, his Lee, tricked out in his hockey uniform.  A goalue at last, his hair is thick and red, his smile gap toothed and sweet.  

Fusco shakes as he turns the wallet to give Reese a look, Reese, who is forgiven.

"My boy," Fusco whispers.  Lionel Jumior. Lee for short."

Reese smiles, sad and concerned. "He looks just like you."

"Yeah, a...a real chip off the...."

Fusco loses it.  He closes the wallet, placing it in his jeans and then loses it, his body wracked with sobs. "We made it through Brooklyn and Queens.  No bites," he says, fierce with pride. "Lee had allergies.  Asthma.  I...I had an epipen and his inhaler but...."

On the lower step, Reese twists until he's facing Fusco.  He wraps his arms around him.  Fusco doesn't even fight him, instead resting his chin against Reeses collarbone.  He reaches around Reeses bruised, not frame and they melt together.  It takes a minute before Fusco notices that Reese is crying, too.  Hot teardrops peppering Fusco"s ear as Reese croons and soothes and sniffles.  How long they stay like that Fusco doesn't know but it is long enough so that Fusco can feel his own heart beating and not feel sick with loss and regret.

Gently,  he pulls from the embrace.  Reese's face is red and wet with tears, his eyes surrounded by brown shadows; even his finely watched brows seem heavier with grief.  

"Oh, guy.  You don't gotta..."  Fusco pulls his t-shirt off, wiping his tears and running nose first, then finding the clean side.  He dabs at Reese's face, drying it until there's nothing left to do but to look into his eyes.  

"Li-O-nel," Reese says again, like he's saying a prayer.  They move simultaneously, mouthes colliding.

"Should we go inside?" Reese whimpers, thrusting into Fusco's clever, calloused hand.

The shack is steps away but way too far. Fusco strips off his pants and shorts, spreading the blanket on the cool concrete.

"No one can see us," he tells Reese, drawing him close.

*

A nearby forgotten camera blinks red.  

 

 


	7. Chapter 7

If the Machine could create a contented purr that rivaled a cat's, she would as she watches Reese and Fusco make love. She's been watching them carefully for the past two years as she searches for a mate for Papa. That Papa has told her in no uncertain terms that he didn't need a mate did nothing to squelch her. He used to tell her that she should be concerned with humanity in general AND not with his specific welfare but she'd won that arguement.

"Ernest, dear, I don't need anything.  You've done so much already."

She chirps in his ear.

"Thank you.  I promise to avoid the frozen pond at all costs," he adds, a trifle patronizing if she's honest.  "But you mustn't..."

That's when she hits him with her best argument yet.  She has time to watch over him, to care for him as a daughter should because over 90% of the world's population had been destroyed by the zombie menace and those that remained were too exhausted to premeditated murder.

"I imagine that does leave some time on your hands " Papa admits.  "All right. Just this once. But no matchmaking."

She begins matchmaking immediately. 

Dismissing Papas half-hearted request for a bride rather than a groom (she's observed his choice of pornography long enough to know),Ernest gets down to fundamentals: Nathan Ingram. 

Deconstructing Ingram is difficult; the man is so frustratingly human. Toting up his qualities and drawbacks leads to one conclusion - no one man can fill the Texans proverbial shoes.  But two?  Both Reese and Fusco have been on her short list for months now: Fusco, gregarious and charming and stubborn, a truly unexpected intelligence that Papa could tease from it's hiding place.  And Reese?  If Ingram is bright as the sun, Reese is cool and silver as the moon. Melancholy, though, but his unreserved capacity for love balances that. 

And now, both of them together?  She puts her plan into motion and when, upon closer observation, her three new assets face potential harm, she takes takee of that, too.

It's her job, after all.


	8. Chapter 8

Harold paces, trying to ignore the knot in his belly as the Machine sings Pi in his nearly invisible earwigy.  "What if I  don't like her?" he frets aloud, picking up his sewing basket. Above the pile of pre-darned socks, there's a piece of fine embroidery, a Christmas gift for Nathan. Sitting down on the low couch in the kitchen, near the warm of the two stoves, he smooths the fabric upon which he's been putting the final stiches on a large, decorous rooster. 'Le Coq Dairy' reads the legend beneath it; Nathan's mother's maiden name, now used to distance himself from the infamy of Ingram.

"It was bad enough before the world went to hell in a handbasket," Nathan had explained, recalling his Time Person of the Year covers and his infamous feud with Beyonce. "But now they've started a religion..."  Harold shudders, glad that the newly-fledged Church of the Machine referred to him almost anonymously, relegating him to the role of 'Harold the Helper'.  Taking up the needle, he manages three stitches before he carelessly  pricks his finger.  Dropping the fabric, a patch for a nearby jacket, Harold sucks his wounded fingertip.  "What if she doesn't like _me?_

 

_***_

 

Fusco is used to measuring the cold stretch of time with the beats of his heart, mostly wishing for said chronometer to quit; why should his beat on while Lee's had been silenced?  Feeling Reese's strong heart thrumming as they grind together transforms tbe dull, relentless march of time into something else, something warm and sweet and formless, like salt water taffy melting on the Coney Island boardwalk on a July afternoon.  It's getting to him, Reese's shy little moans and squeaks, the way everything be does is shy but eager.  Reese, who is a thousand times better looking than Fusco, who probably leaves Fusco's score card (eleven women, including his ex; two guys, Jimmy Stills and Patrick Simmons) in the dust. He's leaning into Fusco's every touch, glowing like a lantern and when Fusco reaches back to squeeze his ass, Reese finally speaks.  "No time now," he whimpers against Fusco's shoulder, biting down for a lifetime before managing, "I want....want you inside me!"

Fusco comes and with his hand slick and hot, he helps Reese finish.


	9. Chapter 9

Another trip to the shower, this time to sluice off the sticking, itching combo of drying semen and fine clippings from Reese's haircut. The water has changed from lukewarm to cold.

"I'd give my left nut for a hot shower," grumbles Fusco. "The kind that you come out feeling like a boiled lobster."

"I miss coffee," Reese admits. "And donuts. Buying them from a food truck and sitting down on a park bench, watching people walk by."

"You and me both, big guy."

Reese chuckles, wincing a little as he supports his bruised ribs. "From where I'm standing, Id say you're the big guy," he purrs, staring blatantly at Fusco's package.

Automatically, Fusco follows his eyes down, a self-depreciating fat joke stopping in its tracks; yeah, he's still built like a brick shit house but his gut has disappeared and he notices for the first time that he can see more, no - All of his dick without sucking in his gut and pushing fat aside.  "Guess I am," he laughs, handing Reese the towel they will share.

*

Reese stands near the railing wearing only his black cargo pants.  Fusco winces as be notices for the first time the sad shape of his companion's feet, which are red with calloused, scars and blisters.  Surreptitiously, he examines Reese's boots.  At first glance, they look well worn but adequate; out in the zombie apocalypse world, one's life may hang on the quality one's socks and boots.  Fusco sees major cracks in the soles and inside each boot rests as insole cut from cardboard.  There are no socks in sight. Fusco s  estimation of Reese's grit increases, if that was even possible.  Dressed only in boxers, Fusco removes his wallet from his wet pants.  Giving Lee's picture a kiss, he puts the wallet in a wooden fruit crate that serves as a dresser.  He pulls out his other pair of jeans and a polo that would swim on Reese's skinny frame and dresses. Then, without a second thought he pulls out two prized possessions.  Working double shifts to stave off despair, Fusco's got plenty of credits but no impulse to spend but last week, he'd obeyed an impulse and visited the cooperative store. Stocked with items from IFT and from raiding local shops as far away as Manhattan, he had bought a heavy grey hoody and a treasure, an unopened pack of wool hiking socks.  Grinning, he grabs his first aid kit and goes out to meet him.

*

Mutely, Reese accepts the clothing after Fusco literally pushes them into his hands. Tears flowing silently, the warrior of a man clasps the socks and hoody to his chest as if they were his babe.

"Hey, hey," Fusco murmurs,  pulling Reese close.  "It's nothing...."

"Not nothing," Reese sobs, wiping his face with his tattered, dirty t-shirt.  Fusco helps him with the sleeves, zipping him up with a kiss that lands just south of Reese's lips.  Calmer now, he lets Fusco annoint his feet with disinfectant and antibiotic cream. Once everything is bandaged good, Fusco pulls on the socks, reminded in a gut wrenching kinda way of helping Lee get ready for school.

"Now," he says, staggering to his feet with Reese's help. "Let's go get your baby girl."

*

Fusco pauses at the bottom of a set of stadium stairs.  "Ok, we got to scramble down this ladder," he tells Reese. "Then two levels to the left, there's a burned zone that's a little tricky..."

Reese squints. Frowning a little at the throng of citizens on the field below.  "Aren't there internal ramps to the different levels?"

Fusco blushes, picturing the long, smooth walkways, unlit until the lower levels, so much like the Holland Tunnel that his spit dries up.  "Yesssss....but..."

Reese turns to face him, cocking an eyebrow.  "Everyone is afraid of something."

Reese's is amused look disappears as he stares at the people. "Didn't think there were...so many."

"Over six thousand at the last census," Fusco says proudly.  "Six thousand and two if you and Leila stay."

"Why wouldn't we?" Reese asks, leaning against Fusco a little. His body is shaking. 

Fusco shrugs.  "Good looking guy like you PLUS a baby? You'll be getting marriage offers left and right.  In person and through the Machine's matching system.  So many kids were lost."  He clears his throat, wiping his eyes; must be the wind making them water.  "There are a lot of good looking men and women out there, with more resources for Leila."

Reese humphs, quieting a little.  "What are all those flags?" 

Grateful for the chance to change the subject, Fusco explains.  "The community is holding its first election. The red flags are for the Conservatives and the blue are for the Church of the Machine candidate.  Up until now we've been led by Admin Greer."  Fusco clears his throat and spits.

"That bad?" Reese asks, the color returning to his face.  The more Fusco thinks about it, the more sympathetic he becomes. He's had over a year to become used to crowds of people instead of masses of ravenous zombies.  He squeezes Reese's  hand.  "I guess Greer's efficient.  Maybe too efficient.  And there's a nasty rumor about him having his goons separate little uns who arrive with broken down parents..."

"Like me."

Fusco starts to backtrack, to deny but he can't.  On the surface, a lot of folks might have thought that Leila deserved a better home than Reese could provide. Fusco might have even thought that, too, if he hadn't taken a few minutes to get to know Reese, to look into his heart.

"We will get her back," Fusco swears, a vow that he finds more authentic than the marriage vows taken so long ago.  He seals it with a kiss, because that seemed as important as the words.

 


	10. Chapter 10

Nervously, Harold makes the bed for the third time, tucking in corners and fluffing pillows. His bedroom in the renovated 1870s farm house had once had the air of a monastic cell, all muted shades of cream and grey but Ernest had changed that. Naturally, he'd fussed at the steady flow of boxes arriving on the kitchen doorstep, boxes filled with silk bedcovers and matching curtains, Egyptian cotton sheets, swan down pillows.  It's a veritable boudoir, Harold realises before long, a sensualist's paradise.

He's always liked nice things and he hates disappointing his daughter, but Harold puts his foot down when she and Nathan broach the idea of Leon coming to Green Gables.

"I do not need a so-called assistant," he'd complained to them jointly.  "My hip and neck don't keep me from the daily activities of life, nor do I need any input for my coding..."

"When we came back from visiting Will you were skin and bones!" Nathan interjected. "Leon can make things easier.  Bring you cups of tea and see to your meals."

Harold starts to reject when he's interrupted again.

"I've interviewed Leon extensively," continues Nathan. "He's a very pleasant looking man, one who is willing to see to your other needs..."

"I DO NOT NEED A CONCUBINE!"

Nathan's expression is both pityting and smug. "Give him a two week trial."

Exhausted, Harold had finally agreed but whatever thoughts of carnal release were quickly dashed during their first conversation.

"Cute dog," Leon had started, extending his hand to allow Bear a sniff, immediately earning a point in his favor that is immediately lost with what he says next. 

"So, uh, I really dig chicks.  You know," Leon says, holding his hands above his chest like he is holding cantaloupe sized breasts. "But you know, uf you want to blow me, that's fine..."

Leon had been immediately been directed to take his bags to the loft apartment in the barn, not to bedroom adjoining Harold's, and a prickly sort of mutually beneficial relationship had limped along.  Leon fed and groomed Pixel, the gelding. Cleaned the hen house (it was Harold's pleasure, rain or shine, to fees his little flock and gather eggs).  Leon made indifferent but still welcome cups of tea and slightly more satisfying bowls of noodles.  Harold had stopped losing weight but still looked careworn, with an air of neglect that worried Nathan, Ernest and their circle of friends.  Given this, it was no surprise that Ernest had conspired to find Harold a mate.

What little input Harold had in the whole affair was that said mate, she, would be willing to share his bed.  It was  actually part of the contract, the standard three month pre-marital contract;  not sex but the intimacy of sleep.

Harold hopes he doesn't  snore.

The bed is king-sized and about half as tall as the beds of that had come with the 1870's farmhouse; an extremely orthopedic mattresses on a low platform that covered with a feather mattress and topped by better linens than he'd ever thought necessary, picky about such things as he is.  It's a comfortable bed, very good for his back and easier to get on and off compared to the four poster that it had replaced.  Disregarding the perfectly placed burgundy silk bedspread and geometrically perfect pillows, Harold flops down with a grunt.

It had been almost too long ago to remember the last time he'd been with a woman.  To remember being with anyone, really.  The silk of the linens beneath his fingertips help conjure up the softness idea woman's thighs, the fringe of hair decorous against her sex...

He cups his groin through his woolen trousers and encouraged by the growing stiffness, unbuttoned his flies.  What better way to relieve the growing anxiety? Better than downing a tumbler of current wine. Better than smoking one of the neatly rolled joints of pain-reducing marijuana that reside in a small ceramic humidor on his dresser.  Freeing his dick, Harold gives it a tug and is gratified to find he is already leaking. Proof, he hopes, that his preference to take a wife instead of a husband was correct.  

Breasts, he thinks, as he pushes his trousers down and starts taking measured strokes.  So soft and comforting, not hard pectorals and scratchy hair that rubs would rub against his own thicket, kindling sparks of desire that can only be quenched...

"This isn't helping," he tells himself aloud. He tries again.

Burying his face between a woman's thighs, tasting her musky-sweet juices as Nathan teases his ass with the tip of his erection, slowly stretching Harold's rim with the thickness of his meaty shaft until Nathan is balls deep and now, it seems, Harold is slobbering as he mouths Arthur's thick,  uncut dick, the three of them finding a perfect rhythm that only stops when Harold is drenched...

He comes, catching it all in his hand except for a thick dribble that landed on his mouse and silver, neatly trimmed pubes, which he gathers up using the monogrammed handkerchief in his pocket.

Far from being relaxed, Harold is nealy frozen by a sudden insight, a memory he had tried to bury.  In the early days of IFT, he'd played a lowly code monkey to Nathan's gleaming CEO.  Necessary, given Harold's past but it had been the anniversary of Harold's father's death and he had sought out comfort from his best friend.  It had happened in an empty hallway leading to the executive suites; weeping, Harold had simply reached for Nathan's hand only to be pushed away with a rough, "For God's sake, Harold.  Not here!"

Nathan had apologized later.  Harold had tried to forget but the sting of it, the look on Nathan's  face, had left an indelible sense of misgivings regarding the capacity of men to love him back.

"What good is it to love a man who is ashamed to take my hand?" Harold thinks bitterly, struggling to rearrange his face before she arrives, as the patter of sleet hits the roof's slate.

*

Reese stops in his tracks once they hit the stadium field, as they turn the corner of a FEMA trailer and face the throng of inhabitants:men aand women, children and the elderly, all going about their business with admirable industry.  Recalling the crowds of zombies he'd skirted and fought, Fusco feels a pang of sympathy. This is new and scary for him.

"It's only natural," he tells Reese, bumping up against him, even butting his thick, curly head against the taller man's chest until he hears a wheezing laugh.  Satisfied, Fusco grabs Reese hand and pulls him through the crowd.


	11. Chapter 11

"Wooh! Fusco found himself some arm candy!"

"Take a look at the Fusco!"

"Good on you, Lionel!"

The good natured shouts hailed from every corner of the densely populated field and Fusco finds his chest puffing, not just because he is proud to he squiring the handsomest guy around because it is as if a veil has lifted and he is suddenly aware that he is genuinely well liked.

"So much for being a recluse," Reese puffs into his ear.  

"But I am!" Fusco protests, trying not to crack a smile because he is trying to act stern and solemn.   "I spend sixty, eight hours a week in the central kitchen, cooking up slop..."

Reese is doing something comical with his eyebrows, almost stopping Fusco in his tracks because he is ready to pull the Wonder Boy down by his hoody strings so that he can plant a long, serious kiss on those pretty lips.

Nothing ventured, nothing gained.

It's like a movie kiss only so much better, never mind their chapped lips and cold noses as bitter wind begins blowing from the east.  Rolling back onto his heels (a gentleman meets his partner halfway), Fusco catches a glimpse of Patrick Simmons in his periphery.  Ignoring the bastard, Fusco tugs Reese's hood, adjusting the coat's zipper up.

"You looked cold," he says by way of explanation.  Reese grins, slouching down to return the kiss and it's only the thought of their sick baby that roots them from their spot.

*

They stop in one of the busiest and most populous areas of the playing field, just a frozen yards from an entrance to the stadium's interior.  It is marked by a huge sign that reads 'HELP'.

"You walk inside, go to the counter and ask for Leila," Fusco explains, eyeing the growing number of shoppers in the Market to their left.

"You won't come with me?" Reese's bottom lip looks dangerously close to trembling.

Fusco shrugs, trying to act nonchalant despite his worry.  He wants to say, "You're a big boy," but the cold thought stops before he can speak.  He has an idea about how things might play out and it is important that he follow behind Reese.

"You aren't much of a talker, huh?"he observes, wrapping his arms around Reese's waist.  

Reese shrugs.

"Well, it's a good thing for you that I am," Fusco replies. "You go in while I go pick up a few things for you and for the baby.  With a little luck, I'll catch up with the two of you at the medical center.  It's connected to the Help Center; the doorways to the right once you pass the counter."

"And if we're not lucky?"

Fusco kisses his chin.  "I will be there in a minute.  To pick up the pieces, if need be."

*

Even with the chip readers tallying up his selection, a miracle of convenience to the former detective, an inveterate line-hater, it is closer to ten minutes before Fusco pushes his way into the Help Center, laden with shopping bags and filled with hope.

Hope thst is dashed by a large crowd of spectators watching Reese, who is on his knees, hands zip tied behind his back.

He spots Joan, a member of the party of survivors that had picked him up, nonverbal and mad with grief.  What's going on?" 

She purses her lips and sighs.  "The tall, handsome boy asked for his daughter but they said he didn't bring one...that it was a baby doll." 

Joan grabs Fusco's elbow as his knees nearly buckle, adding sadly, _sotto voce_ , "They think he's insane."


	12. Chapter 12

It isn't as if Fusco hasn't witnessed broken individuals clinging to show is of sanity as they clung to dolls, bundles of rags, dogs and cats that replaced lost loved ones; not when he might have easily done so himself.

Yeah, the thought that Reese may be one such person flashes through his mind but it is immediately vetoed by his heart. There _is_ a baby and damned if he is going to let Greer steal her.

 *

The Machine is not alarmed at the video feed showing red boxes surrounding Reese and Fusco. Why worry when one of her fiercest assets is only yards away?

*

She doesn't look dangerous but Tasmanian Devils are also small and awfully cute. Pushing back her ponytail, she burps extravagantly.  Last week, her guy in the kitchens (short, square, kind, what's his name? Fiasco? had surreptitiously passed her a jar of peppers along with the regular slop.  Her sandwich eaten, she shakes the jar, which is now filled only with brine and spices.  No matter, she transfers back to the island tomorrow and Root will have gotten some more.

Dr. Shaw's earwig chirps and her expression changes from contentment got a practiced scowl.  She listens carefully and with another burp, she grins.  Time to kick some ass.

*

Reese is on his knees, eyes downcast. His face is an alarming shade of red but his breath, Fusco sees, is measured and steady.  Reese is holding back, Fusco sees; waiting for a word to unleash hell.

"Let him go!" Fusco shouts, elbowing his way through the crowd to get to his guy.  He doesn't see one of the constables until his face his the floor and his arms were also bound tight, cutting into his wrists.  Shoved up onto his knees, Fusco gives Reese a tiny smiles.  

"Sweetie?"

Reese shivers as he looks towards Fusco, his muscles bunching like a thoroughbred after the race.

"Hmmm?"

"Sweetheart, those aren't kids."

Reese nods, puffing held breath as he pops his hands free from their shackles and goes to work.

_It will be a story Fusco will tell for the rest of his life. "So, I'd been to the ballet a few times....yes, the ballet! I'm civilized , damn it, and it wasn't the Nutcracker,  neither. Don't interrupt!  So anyway, he's a blurr, like a fucking Baryshnikov only better, cracking kneecaps and thumping heads. The only bad thing was that it was finished in a minute's time."_

Someone nudges Fusco as he gapes at the action.  "Paddy Simmons, you best cut me free if you don't want your crew turned to apple sauce."

Simmons grunts, cutting the plastic straps. He, decently enough, extends a hand to haul Fusco to his feet but Reese gets there first.  Not even breaking a sweat, not even breathing hard, he sweeps Fusco upright and into his arms.

Trying not to appear impressed, Simmons asks, "Who da fuck are you?"

Reese smiles. "My name is John.  John Fusco."  And because both Simmons and Fusco look confused, he adds, "Lionel's husband," as if it is the most obvious thing in the world.

Kissing John hard, Fusco guesses it is.

A girl with an attitude, a favorite of Fusco's, stomps through the bystanders,  actually stepping  on two of John's moaning 'victims' with her steeltoed boots.  She's  carrying something swaddled in a blanket and she stops in front of Fusco, not John. Her eyes roll impatiently, as though she's listening to directions. Placing the bundle into his arms with surprising care, a smile suddenly transforms her face.  "Meet your daughter, big guy."


	13. Chapter 13

Leila settles against Fusco's chest, he rubs between her shoulder blades, an automatic reflex. It's the scent of hair that's a trip through time, to when he walked the halls with his squirming, colicky son.  She cranes her head, meeting his eyes and breaks into a toothless grin. 

"Hello, darlin'" he croons, kissing her cheek.  Aware now of the comforting weight of John's arm across his shoulder, Fusco leans against his warm frame and closes his eyez, closing out the world for just a few seconds more.

The mass of the crowd, however, cannot be ignored, not the way Simmons, leader of the community's peace keepers, is fruitlessly ordering them to disburse.  Fusco takes a deep breath and slides Leila into John's arms.  He grabs the bullhorn from his friend/enemy/former-fuck buddy and looks for higher ground. Spotting a sturdy pile of boxes marked 'LIBRARY', Fusco climbs aboard, for once taller than all the rest.

"ATTTENTION!" he shouts, wincing at the sharp reverb. "Attention," Fusco says again, quietly and firmly.  "I guess you guys know who I am...."

He is interrupted by an astonishing wall of noise. 

FUSCO! FUSCO! YEAH, THE FUSCO! GIVE 'EM HELL, FUSCO!

Blinking, he checks on Leila, worried that the noise has made her cry.  Instead, she chews on her finger, dimpled and excited, barely contained in her father's sure grip.

The surging crowd simmers down, eager for him to speak.

"I guess I know all you knuckleheads, too, having cooked your slop more'n a year now. Dishing it out and cleaning up after you, too, but I guess until today I didn't get that I was making friends, too."

They break into pleased laughter and another round of chanting his name and isn't that fuckin' surreal?  He motions the crowd to quiet, which they do a hell of a lot more amiably than for Simmons, a gratifying thing.

Fusco clears his throat. "This guy standing here is John.  John Fusco.  My husband."

He barely registers how good it feels to say that because every one of the hundreds now gathered is applauding.  Shrugging mentally, Fusco decides to keep talking over the adoration that's starting to feel embarrassing. 

"I thought he was dead.  That the zombies had gotten him but he showed up last night, bringing me a baby daughter, to boot!"

John does his best, giving a little bow before taking Leila's hand to help her wave, but Fusco sees his paleness and sweat. 

Lowering the bullhorn, he kisses John firmly, whispering, "Go with the doctor.  I'll be right wit' you." 

Fusco's turns to Shaw, gripping her small shoulder.  "Get them out of here.  You're in charge until I get back."

With gratifying speed, she hustles them away.

"John brought our baby to tbe clinic. Found her as a newborn, abandoned,  and he raised out there in the zombiie wastes and she got sick and first thing he did coming in was to get her help. But...." 

Fusco pauses, hoping to build drama because he knows that it isn't just about John and Leila; that there is something fundamentally wrong and it shoiild have been taken care of by someone smarter, more cany, a person without his dirty past.  With a sigh, he knows it has to be him; Fusco may have been a cop but it's time to take out the trash.

'But when he came to get her, they said she didn't exist. That Leila was a delusion, a figment of a broken mind.  And now I want ask each and every one of you how many times you've seen this happen?  Maybe the story is a little different. Maybe Greer and his crew said the little 'uns died.  Always the babies, the cute ones under three. The ones brought in by stragglers."

The crowd starts buzzing, electrified Fusco pauses, gratified that they are getting it,; he can see the angry faces of those already leaping to the obvious conclusion.

"Greer is stealing our kids!  Most of the other communities are better off than us but one thing we got is a steady stream of little kids that he's selling or trading for favors.  Doesn't matter, I just know that when I vote in two days it won't be for a kidnapper!"

Fusco thinks that's it, that he can slink away and find out how to nurse Leila back to health but there's something happening that he doesnt like one bit.  The Church of the Machine people are waving some of their goddamn flags and chanting something, Pi or strings of zeros and ones.  

"Before you Machinists get too excited, I gotta ask one thing: where was your all-seeing god when the babies were stolen?"

With that, Fusco drops the bullhorn and trots as fast as his short legs will take him, off to join his little family.

 

 


	14. Chapter 14

Leila is having a nebulizer treatment when Fusco finally winds his way through the maze of stadium office space that is the Clinic. They are in an exam room that may have once been the reception area for a CEO, given the faux wood paneling and possibly genuine Frederic Remington bronze. Reese.... _John_ has his shirt off, shifting Leila as Shaw palpitates his ribs with a series of disgruntled clucks of her tongue.

"Nothing broken," she sighs, sounding practically disapointed.

"You should have seen me after Ordos," John replies flatly, watching her carefully.  Her eyes eyes narrow and she nods slightly.  "You should have seen me after Berlin."

"Snow," John offers carefully,  like they are a pair of wild dogs sizing each other up, maybe thinking of sniffing each other's asses or maybe going for tge other's throat.

"Indigo," replies Shaw, her face rearranging into a smile. A mystified Fusco feels the unidentifiable tension leave the air.

"How's the baby?" Fusco asks, slowly relaxing.

"She has bronchitis," pronounces Shaw, removing the tiny inhaler mask and turning off the machine.  It's a portable nebulizer, Fusco notices with relief, already thinking about where to score batteries - a complicated but doable series of trades.

"She has to stay warm," she continues. "Your shack isn't adequate."

Fusco wants to defend his little hovel but his mouth tirns dry and the words shrivel away.

"If it were summer," Shaw says almost kindly, patting Fusco's arm with mild distaste. "But the temperature  has dropped ten degrees since noon and the winds are picking up."

"It's a nor'easter," Fusco agrees, his forehead furrowing with concern. He's lived through plenty but in the post-zombie world, he's seen people,  healthy pepple, turn up dead after storms half as bad.

John hands Leila to Fusco, replacing his shirt with a grace that's bewitching.

"Where can we stay?" John asks, tucking the t'-shirt into his waistband in such a way that Fusco wants to pull it up so he can watch John do it again.

Averting his eyes to avoid distraction, Fusco pipes up.  "You knew what was going on out there.  You knew wherr Leila was and where to bring her."

Shaw says nothing, as if this is obvious. A computer tablet resting on the makeshift examining table chirps and she touches her left ear, nodding at a voice inaudible to men and baby.

Without glancing at the text unfurling on the tablet's screen, she hands it to Fusco.

It is difficult to read; Leila goggles at the bright surface with with obvious interest and grubby hands.  Fusco pats for his reading glasses but John has already fished them from Fusco's jacket pocket with the ease of a pickpocket artist. He carefully hands them iver, mindgul of the cracked glass.  Squinting hard, Fusco starts reading.

"This is a temporary marriage contract," he exclaims. "Says here that a man, mid fifties, bookish, uh, owns a small, prosperous farm on Ravenford Island, is seeking a bonded pair, two men, object:  permanent matrimony.   Interest in farming or housekeeping a plus.  Children welcome."

"That's a match straight from the Machine," Shaw says. "Look at the compatibility rating in the left corner."

"99.995%, A+++," Fusco whispers, shocked.  He knows a handful of happy couples matched by the Machine and none of them were over 85%.

"She sent me to drag your sorry asses someplace safe," Shaw says solemnly.  "You and your girl."

"She?" asks John.

"The Machine, " Shaw answers, as if this should be totally obvious.  "I don't know why but she's made you three top priority assets."

Shaw frowns. "Let me see the that."  They watch her tap in a long alpha-numeric string and place both thumbs for a scan.  She turns so they can't see screen.

She laughs, covering her mouth with her hand to hide a wreath of a smile.

"Somthin' funny?" snaps Fusco,  exhausted and about at the end of his rope.

He never expects her to hug him, then John and Leila, with peppery little kisses on their cheeks.  "Holy shit," she finally says, adding, "Wait  'til I tell Root!"  

"What?" ask John and Fusco together.

 "There is only one man on the island that fits this profile. A good man, the very best...one who needs you three just as much as you need him."

 


	15. Chapter 15

The room where Shaw leads them is large and narrow, bare except for a mattress in the far corner and a long conference table pushed against the floor to ceiling window that spans the length of the room. Crowded on the tables surface are objects covered with drop clothes. Fusco takes a peak when Shaw's back is turned.

Computers.

There's a door at the very end, which she points to. "Bathroom. No hot water but the toilet and sink work." She points to a device perched on the floor near the bed. "You can heat water in the electric kettle for washing up."

Fusco puts down his shopping bags before lowering himself onto the mattress, his finger tips surprised by the softness of the sheets and blanket. His knees cracking, Fusco grunts, a combination of pain and fatique. Oh, and a fair amount of relief that he might try expressing if only the pony-tailed little dynamo would only scram.

Instead, she is going over a handful pf bottles with John; Fusco recognizes the sickly pink colored stuff right off - penicillin or some kind of antibiotics, the bubblegum flavored stuff that Lee used to spit out. Seemed he wore pink shirts for days when his boy was down with bronchitis.

Listening more intently now that his head has hit a very comfortable pillow, there's more she's explaining: baby acetaminophen, baby nose spray, baby thermometer; Fusco hopes it isnt the ass kind. Shudder. He could almost fall asleep except a pair of tiny feet are stepping across his belly. Blinking, he smiles up at John, who is holding Leila under her arms so that she is standing on him. Fusco gets his hands around her waist and John lets go.

She beams down at Fusco as he airplanes her above him; quiet, though, where Lee's giggles would have woke the downstairs neighbors. He has seen her react to sound but she's so damned quiet that you'd think she was deaf - though Fusco's visited a school for the deaf during an investgation and thosr kids were LOUD! No, the answer is simple. Imagine huddling in a car or hovel surrounded by hungry zombies, where a baby's cries are nothing so much as a dinner bell. John has done the near impossible but life-saving trick of teaching Leila to be quiet.

Fusco tickles her tummy and at the faintest little chirp he tells her, "Good girl!"

*

Engrossed in his task, Fusco doesn't notice that they've caught tbe attention of John and Shaw until John plops down beside them; Shaw looks down, her forehead furrowed. She gestures widely at the room.

"This started out as a way to keep Leila warm and dry but things are getting...more complicated."

In response, Fusco blows a raspberry on Leila's belly; silent, her eyes dart towards John. He smiles, laughing along with her as Fusco does it again.

"Look, there's a crowd out there ready to lynch Greer once they've found him!"

"Good riddance," Fusco mutters darkly.

"We are still Americans," John says, the solemn effect of the patriotic sentiment ruined when he follows up with an, "I guess?"

Shaw shrugs.  "The Chief of the Peacekeepers,  Simmons, thinks we are.  The Machine is giving good odds on him doing the right thing."

Recalling his long, complicated relationship with the former-sergeant, Fusco arches an eyebrow. "What's that?"

"Expulsion."

Each of them shivers; to be thrust back into the zombie filled wastes with nothing but a backpack filled with water and a pointy broomstick?  The stuff of nightmares .

"Even for stealing babies, Greer's still got plenty of loyal followers.   If there are riots, there's a chance people will recall your little speech this morning and..."

"And come looking for me."  Fusco hands Leila to John.  "I gotta leave, babe.  You two aten't safe."

Before John can protest, Shaw interjects.  "Nope. Not going anywhere.  I got it on good authority that you three are a package deal.  Besides, anybody trying to mess with you will have to go through me first."

If Fusco still regarded Shaw as the quarrelsome but entertaining young doctor that he beftiended months earlier, he might have laughed but now he sees her true self, a tiny honey badger, and that's enough to calm him down.

"Are you packing enough heat?"

Fusco's head snaps to John. So he also noticed the pair of guns strapped to the small of Shaw's back: with her lab coat, all but invisible.  He grins. "Don't forget those three knives."

Shaw glares. "Two."

"Aww, honey, I see what that ponytail is hiding.  That and the knife in each of your boots should be plenty,"

John covers his mouth, trying hard to stay on her good side. "If you can lend me a knife?"

She fiddles with her scrunchy, removing a wicked looking stiletto and hands it over. "I need that back."

Patting Fusco's shoulder, she hands him the tablet.

"The two of you need to decide about marrying this...guy. Don't let the current state of immenent danger effect your choice.  For your prospective husband's  sake as well as yours, you have to be committed to make it work.  Nothing half-assed about the guy, is what I'm saying."

Seeing that they have listened, Shaw sighs.

"Read the fine print. Plus there is stuff about the island.  Take a good look.  If things stay calm, I'll check in with you in the morning.  If things go FUBAR, I'm pulling you guys out if here, capiche?"

John winks at her, something that might once have made Fusco jealous.  "Don't worry, Shaw. Things will be fine."


	16. Chapter 16

Several hours later, Shaw returned, askimg about the marriage option with undisguised urgency.  John had turned to Fusco, deferring to him for the answer.  Something had flowered inside the former- lieutenant, making him nearly burst with protecting pride.  'Cause he'd sussed what John had wanted without a word of discussion, had known that protecting Leila was paramount over any other concerns. 

Squeezing John's hand, he'd replied, "Yeah, we'll do it.  We'll marry this Harold."  John had leaned against Fusco, he and the baby warmed by his encircling arm.

To formalize thimgs, Shaw had sterilized the back of John's right hand. Had let Fusco pull the trigger that injected the chip beneath John's skin; a more honest wedding ceremony than his first, Fusco thinks.  New data is entered, statuses changed, linking the little family in the Machine's vast memory banks.

*

Fusco reads to Leila, the book held at arm's length; his reading glasses shattered in the scuffle but he can squint and make out the shapes and colors of birds. John thrums with nervous energy, alternating between searching for hidden cameras and secreted items. He has found four cameras, whistling with admiration at the skill with which they had been installed. "Someone really knows their stuff."

The items are stowed in a smalll compartment of John's backpack, which Shaw has returned, along with his fighting staff and Leila's gear.  Only the artful dildo and half-empty bottle of lube are returned to their hiding spot; they figure that the bird book, binoculars and wrapped bar of soap won't be missed. Not to mention the unopened bottle of lube, primo stuff. There's a pair of glasses, too, coke-bottle lenses that are too strong for Fusco to borrow.  Frowning, he puts them back.

The room feels hot, sweltering, really though John's hoodie is zipped high and Leila seems comfortable in her new footie onesie.  Fusco kisses her head, finding that she isn't running a fever. Unable to ignore the fresh throb of pain in his right wrist, he wonders if he isn't running hot. The abrasion from the zip ties seemed laughably minor, a thing to ignore when until more pressing matters are attended to. 

Gingerly rubbing his wrist, Fusco wonders at how his life had changed; he's a husband again and a father again and the responsibility weighs sweetly on his heart.  He's got to protect them, to prepare to scram if Shaw orders.  Their gear is packed, a duffle bag, a backpack and Leila's sling. Fusco is fully dressed, down to his laced boots, feeling a pang of guilt at mussing tbe pretty bed cover, which smells good - of the expensive soap and something warm and masculine, what lingers of the man who had temporarily called this home.

The stuffed toy that Fusco had bought for Leila is a cute Blue Jay, a fact he points out as he reads to her from the bird book,  a Peterson's Guide to Eastern Birds. Leila gnaws at both. "She's teething."

WIith breathtaking grace, John flops onto the bed. pausing to rub his hand and wrist, he scoops Leila into his arms, running a finger along her upper gums. She bites, hard. The men laugh.

Fusco lifts John's hand, kissing the small square of bandage, feather light, down to scuffed knuckles; he hears John's breath catch.  "Wish I could have gotten you a ring."

John exhales. "It was time I finally got chipped. We can wait, see if things work out with the new guy."

"Get three rings that match," Fusco ponders, finding the idea surprisingly palatable. 


	17. Chapter 17

Leila settles in the carboard box lined with a towel. It's near the bed, arm's reach but Fusco can see John's features tense.

"I'm used to popping her in her sling and wearing her as we sleep," John explains, looking as though he wants to snatch her up and do just that.  "Not much of a honeymoon, huh?" 

Fusco snorts, recalling his first honeymoon, when he and Sharon had both passed out drunk on the big bed in a Poconos resort, both regretting already.  It's not gonna be like that this time.

"I had a partner, a gal. The best damned cop I ever saw. The kind of cop other cops wanna be.  At least, I know I did."

John squeezes his hand,  his smile shifting to a frown.  "You're hot."

"Warm for your form, babe," Fusco quips, retrieving his hand.   Undeterred, he continues.  "She had a shit ton of confidential informants, mostly ladies on street corners.  Mostly young. .She couldn't spread money around but she'd beg from newstands for candy bars and stuff, mostly old Cosmos and hair style magazines; I'd flip through them when I was bored. One day there was an article that said 50% of newlyweds don't have sex the first night."

John still looks unhappy, like he's got something to say but doesn't know how.  

Thinking it's him, Fusco lifts his roughly bandaged wrist apologetically.  "So much goin' on, I didn't want to worry you.  Must have picked up an infection from those dirty zip ties.  I'll get Shaw to look at it in the morning."

They sit there for a moment, not speaking, listening to the wind pick up; it's bad, like a cat screaming.  John shifts, rubbing his  arm again, as if in sympathy.

"You ok?"

John shrugs.  "The storm's just starting, making my bones ache.  Broke it last winter, 'round New Year's."  

Distracted by the pain pf his wrist, Fusco notices his ass has started to throb a little, a souvenir of a bullet he'd caught to save a kid; he can sympathize.  "Around when you found Leila?"

John looks down. "Yeah, about then," he replies distantly, as if ready to drop the subject.  He clears his throat a few times and Fusco waits, but it's not about the broken but about something much harder to heal. 

"Maybe it's better. So we can take our time..."

The repurposed conference room is shadow-filled but Fusco guesses John can see his look of surprise.

John runs his fingers tbrough his freshly shorn hair, anxious.  "I know I was, uh, down to pound before. I wanted you, straight off, first time I wanted someone in years."

It seems impossible, John had been so tender, so eager - elevating  what had amounted to wet humping into something from the fucking Kama Sutra.  "Huh?"  

"After 9-11, when I joined the CIA, I was trained by two senior agents. A man and a woman, names not important. They learned pretty quick what made me tick and began using sex as a tool."

Fusco frowns. "As a reward?  The carrot, so to speak?"

John covers his eyes. "No.  As tbe stick. They used it to humiliate me, to break me apart. They rebuilt me into a machine. Tried, at least because I was never good enough and it never stopped. What you and I did was the best sex I can remember.  Ever."

"Jesus, babe, me too," Fusco proclaims, voice emphatic but still quiet enough not to wake Leila.  "My...my experience was with two friends.  But not friends, though I'd kinda loved one of them since we were in high school.  They made things rough and mean and I was so hungry that it was ok.  They were how I turned bad as a cop and I thought it was the most I deserved, that it was good that they'd hurt me."

John nods grimly.  "That cop this morning, the leader..."

Fusco blinks; damned this guy is good. "Yeah, Simmons. Patrick Simmons, he was one. Jimmy Stills, Jimmy from the black, he died about two years before the world went to hell in a handbasket."

"Does Simmons...?"

Blushing, Fusco shakes his head. "Barely talks to me, much less....other stuff.  Not that I'd have taken him up on it. How'd you guess?"

"Saw the way he looks at you," is John's simple response, one that Fusco can't wrap his head around, not when he's got more important business on hand.

"I think we both need to take it slow. Gentle and slow.  I never want to be entered dry or have my mouth fucked so hard I can't talk or hardly swallow the next day."

John nods, "All that.  No tying up or humiliation. No grabbing my head hard, sinking fingernails into my scalp so it bleeds."

"Or pulling out chunks of hair," Fusco adds, no longer pretending not to cry.  "I promise, God as my witness, that no one will ever treat you like that. Not me or this Harold we're marrying, not anybody."  It might have seemed ridiculous, a chubby, nearsighted detective promising to protect this James Bond of a man (only better, Fusco thinks fiercely). A stranger might have thought so, but John doesn't, having already learned not to discount the power of the Fusco.

There's just enough time to kiss before the door unlocks, Shaw bounding in, eyes blazing. "Time to go, lovebirds."

Fusco hands John their daughter. "Let's rock and roll."


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> more to come soon!

What constitutes a nightmare has changed; Fusco doubts with great sincerity that people still dream about finding themselves naked in geometry class.  Nightmares, waking in this  case, are pitch black stairwells and corridors, the damp subterranean funk of subway platforms with the sweet scent of decaying flesh.  Not that there are zombies present, Fusco can admit as he boards their car, assisted to a seat by John because the adrenaline charge of abject terror has tapered to mere paper dry mouth and wobbly knees.

"You did good," John says reassuringly, stroking Fusco's back, cradling him even.  Leila remains asleep, unaware of Fusco's pet fear and their close call with band of rioters who smell of smoke.  It isn't until they are safely away that Shaw admits that Fusco's hovel had burned to cinders, the result of deliberate arson.

It doesn't matter, not when they are safe and sound but then Fusco remembers.

"My wallet."  He doesn't try to hide the tears.

He hears Shaw's exasperated grunt.

"What's wrong with him," she says crossly; it sounds dim as Fusco snuffles against John's thigh, as if behind a wall of water.

John must have given her one of those shark-like stares because she ambles off without him saying a word. Lot of power in my man's eyes, Fusco thinks, calming with each pass of John's fingers through his curls.  He doesn't have to explain about Lee's photo, the last bit he has of his boy, now ashes.  He misses the open air of bridge leading to the island, doesn't wake up until the train grinds to a halt and it's daylight, however overcast.


	19. Chapter 19

It ain't Grand Central, that's for sure. The railroad station is more cute than majestic, a long, slate roofed building with a fresh coat of whitewash cover the weathered exterior. Long benches line the deep porches , providing seats for those waiting for a train away or else, a ride home. They stay on the outer porch long enough to watch Shaw catch her ride, sliding onto the back of a large grey mare before folding her arms around the waist of a rider, an uncommonly pretty woman, who stares their way.

"Go inside, Leila's getting cold," John suggests firmly, as much for Fusco's sake as the baby's. Gratefully, he trudges back inside, over hot and cold at once. There's no one waiting for them and isn't that a kick in the teeth? Bitter, because that's better than scared, thinks the former-police officer from Brooklyn as the other passengers board horse drawn vehicles or simply take off walking, a warm hearth and family waiting.

As John searches for answers, Fusco settles in, placing their scant possesions neatly at his feet. A backpack, a small duffel and a paper shopping bag is the sum of his life so far, when once he had dreamed of buying a summer place in the Poconos.

Life is strange.

Because he'll fall asleep holding Leila, Fusco struggles to keep busy.  He doesn't want to unpack the tablet or the bird book and besides, he couldn't read it anyway without his glasses.  Glancing about and finding themselves alone, he can take a risk without anyone but Leila to see his hidden talent, a secret he learned to keep before even entering kindegarden, lest people think him a wonder or a freak.  Doesn't think Leila will mind.  Fusco takes a deep breath and begins.

"Once known as New York's Nantucket, located 20 nautical miles southeast of Long Island's eastern tip, the island of Ravenrook was In October 1641, William, Earl of Stirling, deeded the island to Samuel Burdett, of Yonkers. In 1659 Burdett sold an interest in the island to nine other purchasers, reserving 1/10th of an interest for himself, "for the sum of thirty pounds ... and also two beaver hats, one for myself, and one for my wife." 

Gaining it's name from the impressive colony of ravens inhabiting the northermost cliffs, Ravenrook quickly became an economic success with it's fertile fields growing bountiful crops of such staples as: potatoes, onions turnips and beets.  Set upon steep cliffs, Ravenrook's one inlet proved to become a popular ship harbor, with a naturally deep channel that allowed the largest of ships passage.  Improved by the building of two lighthouses and a significant army fortress, until the mysterious plague of 1890, the island's prosperity seemed assured."

Fusco hesitates.  In his mind he can see the remaining text, which John had read to him last night, hear it, too, in John's deep whisper voice.  If that were the extent of Fusco's weird talent, he'd have just been an oddity, maybe enter one of those best memory contests and win, maybe go on Ellen or Oprah or something.  But he can see things that other people can't, clues in murder scenes sticking out like sore thumbs and he can put ideas together, too.  He's smart enough to keep it all a secret, though he suspects Simmons had an idea, Fusco's old partner, too.  She'd look at him sometimes, eyes wide as he'd pick an earring out of a smoldering car wreck as if by magic. 

Fusco shivers, trying to push the past into the neat containers that fill the shelves of his mental palace.  The article about Ravenrook gets pretty gory pretty quick; Leila's too small to understand but he changes things up for both of their sakes.

"So in 1890, a nasty old ship sails into the harbor but everyone on it went bye-bye and pretty soon everyone else on the island went bye-bye, too!"  He waves at her and helps her wave back. "Bye-bye!"  This is good, a lot more satisfying than describing a flu, thought to be an early strain of the Spanish flu that went on to kill countless.  He sighs, picking up where he'd left off in the text.  "Now known as a plague island, Ravenrook was abandonned.  Except for visiting troops of soldiers and scientists, who maintaned the island's original structures, the U.S. government strictly enforced an off limits policy until shortly after the events of 9-11, when it granted a 100 year lease to IFT, reportedly for the princely sum of one dollar."

Fusco doesn't hear John until he plops down on the bench next to them, his eyes wide and mouth agape.  Fusco cringes, aware now that he's overheard, closing his eyes to avoid the inevitable subsequent expressions of amazement, disbelief and disgust.  He feels John pulling Leila away and his heart fucking breaks.  

"Were you....uh, you memorized....?"

Miserably, Fusco nods.  "Hell, man, I'm so sorry. I..."

John slings his free arm over Fusco's shoulder, pulling him close so their bodies touch.  "You're smart."

Fusco's about to say yeah, I'm a freak, I won't blame you for leaving - expect his lips are sealed by John's. 

"God, that's hot," he whispers into Fusco's ear, the dark stubble rasping against his neck a second later.

 

 


	20. Chapter 20

They might have stayed like that forever, nuzzling, too exhausted for it to build into anything more than a comforting haze. There's Leila to think about and the sudden dull echo of footsteps sounding from the far end of the station. Just as well, Fusco thinks, his heartbeat quickening; his wrist aches like a rotten tooth and he just wants to go home.

Home.

Of all the weird and unexpected changes, this seems the strangest. John and Leila are tangible, reassuringly solid. A home, a real home - not a shack or repurposed conference room, still seems impossibly out of reach.  This is because of more than the fact that Harold isn't there to greet them; may be that he's shy, a private sort.  Fusco gets that, even prefers to make acquaintances where they can let their hair down, so to speak.  But something hinky is going on - he can feel it in his nerves or his years as detective are playing him wrong.  

"Hey, bros?  You see a lady around here?"

It's a man, not much taller than Fusco but not nearly as thick. With pretty salt and pepper hair, the stranger's handsome features are spoiled by a look of petulant fatique.  He tosses a small carboard box carelessly from hand to hand to hand, awaiting their reply.

"Nope," replies Fusco, reluctantly moving away from John and Leila, far enough to pop his shoulders and crack his neck..

He considers busting out some Mandarin on the guy, either that or Cantonese but he's already shown off today.  Still, he's thinking about it when John reaches out to shake the guy's hand, saying, "Ni hao," as pretty as you please along with asking for directions in flawless Mandarin.

Hot.

"Uh, dude, I'm from New Jersey," the man replies. "Name's Leon.  You see a lady around here?"  He rubs the back of his neck. "Maybe red haired?"

"Unless you count Leila, no," John says with an amused snort, wrapping one of her strawberry blond curls around his finger, making her laugh.

"Hmphh," sighs Leon. "Cute kid but I'm looking for a wife."

"Congratulations, I guess" says Fusco, holding back because the chick's a no show.

"Do I look like a guy who's ready to settle down? It's Harold wanting the old ball and chain and he's going to have kittens if I don't bring her home.  Not that he's not already gunning for my hide."

John starts to say something but Fusco cuts him off. "So this Harold guy, he's your boss? A real asshole, huh?  Maybe likes to throw a punch?"  It comes out almost lighthearted, chummy and conspiratorial - not as if their futures turned on the answer.

Leon scowls. "Worse.  He blinks."

"Blinks?" ask Fusco and John in unison.

"Blinks his big, sweet eyes and smiles encouragingly as he gives a lecture like he's the king of MIT.  I can't stand it!"

Fusco stands up, his body creaking, grabbing John's elbow with his good hand.  "Leon, we're your gal."

 

 

 

 

 


	21. Chapter 21

The wind picks up. Harold stops setting the kitchen table for two, transfixed by the spinning wind vane, a verdigris brass trotting horse now crusted with ice. Tapping his earwig, he finds the Machine suspiciously silent. Shaking this impression off as a case of nerves, Finch loads clean towels into the dryer, setting them on high because even the short walk from where Leon will stop the buggy would leave his guest...his wife cold and wet. Tapping his ear again, he listens for the tracker set in Pixel's harness; Leon is bugged, too, but tracing him leaves a distasteful sensation akin to guilt. Perhaps if he'd asked before tampering with the man's glasses...

Fiddling with a doily ( _will she think I'm unmanly? Do real men tat doilies?)_ Finch hears the buggy approach the front gate. The pings slow to standing, perfectly normal as the gate has to be unlocked and swung wide to admit them. They resume after mere seconds, not the usual annoying two minutes, surely longer when the weather is factored in. The pitch and frequency tells him that Pixel is being driven away from Green Gables, not towards it, at a pace that belies Leon's ritual sedentary modus operandi. Very strange indeed and when Finch calls for Ernest for an explanation, she is still uncharacteristically absent.

Cursing silently, Finch opens the the kitchen door, peering down the driving lane to the road where he spies two distant shapes. Two men, he guesses, one tall and one not; strangers in any case. They are trudging, bowed, not bracing against the wind and stinging ice pellets, in no way hurrying towards the house as one typically might.

There's a protocol, one that Finch despises as much as he knows its importance; he'd written himself, after all. He taps the number pad on the mud room's gun case, withdrawing a rifle with a moue of distaste. He calls for Bear, who stretches and yawns, suddenly all business when Finch gives him the command. "Guard, Bear. Bewaken."

The men are closer enough now that despite the ice splatteted lenses of his glasses, Finch can see their pale, drawn featueres, the cheerful red of the buggy's lap blanket covering the taller ones right shoulder and waist and the companion spot of red on the shorter man's otherwise white bandaged wrist.

With Bear at his side, Finch squares the rifle against his shoulder.

"Halt!"

They stop.

"Witin the past seven days, have either of you been in contact with subjects known as the living dead?"

The tall one raises his left hand, his right occupied wiyh supporting a smallish mass beneath the blanket.  

"Tangled with a few but wasn't bitten or scratched," he replies, his voice beautfully silky despite the rasp of fatique.  

With a mouth dry from the sudden fight or flight jolt of adrenaline, Finch gestures the rifle towards the other man.  "Your wrist?"

"A scratch.  Got infected, don't you know," says the shorter but not neccessarily smaller man, whose shoulders, at any other time, might have inspired a different sort of hormonal reaction.

"Please stand still while my dog checks you," Finch commands. "If you attempt to harm him in any way, I won't hesitate to shoot."

Whistles punctuate the noise of the storm and Bear springs forth, eagerly circling the strangers twice before turning to face his master, ears alert and brow furrowed.

Puzzled, Finch repeats the command.  "Hold out your wrist towards him."

The man obliges, muttering a string of quiet curses that Finch regognizes as pure Brooklyn.  Bear sniffs, sneezes once before turning back, tail wagging.

No sign of the destructive virus, but then Bear unexpectedly drops in front of the taller man, wriggling on his back and yipping like a pup.  

"What is beneath the blanket?" Finch demands, his heartbeat racing.

He lifts the blanket slowly, carefully revealing a small pale face peering from a makeshift sling.

A baby?

"Oh dear God, a baby!" Finch gasps aloud, lowering his weapon.  "Please, please come inside this minute!"


	22. Chapter 22

Nostalgia bursts like fireworks but it takes a full minute for Fusco to discover the source - the muted whump-whump of a dryer spinning. And something else, an odor that's warm and familiar and something he could place if he were in his niche. He feels like collapsing, it's all too much, but he can't, not with John standing rigid, iced and dripping, with Leila tucked against his heart.

Harold bustles between the kitchen and the mud room, a cute, officious schnauzer, with a limp, no less. As Fusco triies to get his bearings, he can't help but admire the man's grit. His ass, too, but now is not the time.

"A snowy woods in Hungary," John whispers, his free hand gripping  his wooden staff so hard that his knuckles are white.  He'd said it earlier, during the drive, as the road had would through a heavily forested passage.  Fusco doesn't get the reference but he can suss the meaning; logically knowing that the island is free of zombies doesn't do jack when you are used to fighting for your life every goddamn second.  He needs to defuse the situation, best he can and Harold's just the man to help.

"Let me have Leila," Fusco croons, petting the baby through the sling, petting John, too.  There is no real resistence but no help either as he lifts her up and out, John's hands falling stiffly to his sides.  

"Here," Fusco says, passing the baby over to their host, who now more closely resembles an owl.  Takes her readily, holding her well, like he's done it before, his dropped jaw turning into the sweetest, most wistful of grins.  It is damned cute but Fusco is running on vapors and has to concentrate to get John squared away.  Gently, he pulls the frozen, wet hoodie off John, then his t-shirt, reaching back for a hot towel, which Harold provides with the wordless efficiency of an ER nurse.   Fusco drapes the towel over John's head, pulling him down enough to kiss him, his cheeks and then his lips, soft as a butterfly.  He hears a little sigh behind him but doesn't care, just one more bit if information shared.

Hair, first, thank God it is practically stubble and not the crazy mop from before.  Satisfied, he places the towel over John's head and his shoulders like a shawl. Turning to grab a towel on his own, he hears Harold gasp.  

Yeah, the bruises from the beating are all kinds of Technicolor, a regular Bikini Atoll sunset, if you will.  Fusco doesn't know, maybe Harold, prim and fussy looking as a professor, will run or faint or some kind of godamn thing but to his everlasting gratitude just says, "I'll check the soup, it must be hot," adding, "I get the first aid kit while I'm at it."

Pretty good for someone who clearly did not expect them, who must be bursting with questions.

Fusco finds a stack of quilts on a shelf Log Cabin, Courthouse Steps variant, bundling John. From the kitchen, he hears a lilting voice.

"Yes, that really is a very good Blue Jay, Leila.  A Cyanocitta cristata of the best sort, if I do say so myself."

Tugging John into the kitchen to the table, Fusco sees Leila has still got the toy bird he'd bought her what seems a million years ago. She's waving it in Harold's face and he doesn't seemed to mind in the least.  Like he loves kids or birds or....

It's Fusco's turn to turn statue as his brain finally makes the connection.  Birds, the comforting odor,  maybe more that he's not grasping but damned if this Harold isn't the guy, the computer expert whose stuff they'd pawed through, whose bed they'd slept in the night before.

Harold is standing there, at Fusco's side, petting his back like it's his turn to be taken in hand.  Guy doesn't even know his name.  Depositing Leila back to John, Harold chivies him back to the mud room.

"Shirt, please," he says, helping Fusco along, towelling him off and that hot towel makes Fusco wonder if he's gone to heaven.  

Without asking first, Harold digs through the backpack and duffel, retrieving one Fusco-sized shirt and pair of sweats.  There is nothing else but Leila-gear, John's new jeans and still tucked away, the loot from Harold's crash pad.

"Your things," Harold says, frowning. "I suppose my assistant, Leon, took off without unloading the rest of your bags?  Or perhaps you left them at the station?"

Fusco burns with shame, miserable to admit that this is it - the sum of two lifetimes of work, nothing.

"We travel light."  It's John, standing in the doorway with Leila, some color already returning to his monochrome cheeks.  "Come and eat, both of you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When John is talking about snowy Hungary, I was trying to flash back to his tv canon first kill but am probably misremembering and I couldn't find it online.


	23. Chapter 23

Automatically, Harold gathers shed layers of cold, wet clothing, starting a fresh load in a the space age washing machine that graces the mud room.  He takes John's jeans, not blinking at his going commando.

After handing his husband the lone piece of dry, Fuscos own pair of boxer shorts,  he changes Leila's diaper.  A clean onesie and a wee pair of sweats go on without a fuss, Fusco returning her to John, who fishes for her medicine bag.  The laundry is started.

Harold turns to Fusco. "Down in the cellar, there's a box full of clothes my friend Arthur keeps forgetting here. The lightbulb burned out last week and I haven't had a chance to change it but there's a lantern."  He stares at Fusco, who can feel the color draining from his face.

"I'll get it," John volunteers, guiding Fuscto a chair around the kitchen table, depositing Leila into his arms.  Fusco shivers, clutching her.

A hand pats his shoulder, a cup of hot tea appearing at his elbow.  "It's ok. Everyone is afraid of something."

"Wasn't before," Fusco replies, remembering the Holland Tunnel, losing Lee.  He shakes his head at the memory.  Lee died in Manhattan, of anaphylactic shock. Didn't he?

He takes a sip of tea. Green, but not half bad.

"What are you afraid of?"

Harold quits slicing bread.  He blinks, worrying his bottom lip before finally answering.  "Skyscrapers."

Something is not quite, like the little librarian of a man is giving an easy answer.  But true enough. "Yeah?" 

Encouraged, Harold finishes setting the table. "I was working on the 80th floor. I used a walker back then. It wasn't that long after my, uh, my injury.  When my supervisor suddenly reanimated, I was able to keep him back with the walker. I trapped him against the window, which broke." Harold smiles wanly. "If he'd still been alive, it would have been a classic defenestration."

 Fusco nods, half sleeping, guard down.

Harold's smile twitches. "Defenestration is death by...."

Fusco rallies, interrupting despite his better judgement. "death by being tossed from a window.  Easy, if you remember the French term for window is _fenetre_.  Best know historically for the Defenestration of Prague, in 1618, sparking the 30 Year's War."

Thank God, John shows up, box balaced on his shoulder, his spair hand keeping the boxers from cascading to his ankles.

*

Harold pours soup into large ceramic mugs, for which Fusco is tempted to kiss him; neither refugee, would-be husband is capable of handling a spoon with more grace than Leila. As it is, Fusco can't move his right hand without stiffling a yelp. His wrist is bad, real bad, but he's got to figure out what's going on before he can even consider the predicament. Wait for the other shoe to drop.

The soup goes down easy, despite an unexpected wave of nausea. It's a basic vegetable soup, something Fusco thinks is just as good a metric for judging a cook's skills as the more typical test - a fried egg.

Harold's good.

There are chunks of carrots and potatoes and a certain je ne sais crois flavor that's a turnip, diced thin enough to disolve over hours of simmering. The chunks of beef are small and tender.  Fusco glances at John, who is dipping chunks of fresh bread into the soup, taking delicate bites.

"If it's not to your liking,"  says Harold, a fret line forming between his brows. He's just come back from the sink, where he carefully washed Leila's hands and face.  As if a magician, he miraculously produces a box of goddamn Cheerios, spreading a handful on the table cloth in front of her.  Leila goggles at the cereal and at Harold, who takes an 'o', popping it in his mouth. "Yum-yum!"

She turns to John, who manages a smile so sweet that Fusco wants to cry.

"Good, Leila! Yum!"  Now that her father approves, she grabs a  fistful, cramming them in her mouth. Most spill out, thank god, and she gums the rest.

Peering over her reddish curls, Harold asks, "Her mother?"

"Dead," grunts John, surprising Fusco, who distinctly remembers the story of he told of finding her abandonned. Of course logically, one could assume that she was killed by zombies. Fusco files this away, too tired to turn it over in his mind.

Harold isn't so jaded by death that he doesn't wince, pecking a tiny kiss atop her head.

"So," he continues, catching flying Cheerios with ease, "You two are....?"

"Married?" asks Fusco, a wave of dread washing over him. He tries to grin. "That's what you asked for, yeah?  A bonded couple, two guys, um gay. Kids welcome."  He grabs the tablet from the backpack at his feet.  "We signed the contract before we left."

Harold frowns as he rapidly scans the document, his face soon matching the pale of the tablecloth. "Gentlemen, there's been a terrible mistake."

 

 


	24. Chapter 24

It's hard to care for someone when you have to care for everyone. There came a point when he couldn't bear to leave the Machine when there so many fires to put out. Actual fires and metaphorical. The world as Harold had know it was gone. The only thing he could do was save what he could, at the cost of friendship.  Of human interaction, even.

Nathan had found him six months ago, passed out over his keyboard surrounded by empty tea mugs, scrawny and unshaven and delirious.

Something of an intervention had happened once he'd recovered enough to stumble back to work. Nathan had hired Leon. Harold had given in to Ernest's attempts to pamper him. When matchmaking had be broached, he'd given in, to get his loved ones off his back and because he could see that they were right.

The Machine could handle things with his apt guidance. He didn't need to take on the entire burden of guilt over things lost. The Zombie Plague had been judged no one's fault. Things were better because of his creation.

Contemplating the mysteries of the human heart is the last thing he wants but it's unavoidable.  A dog, they say, cannot change its spots and so Harold can't change the fact that he is born to love.

 


	25. Chapter 25

 The two men trudging towards Green Gables weren't expected and yet it seemed to Harold that they might have been sent from central casting - so perfectly they represented his non-platonic ideals.  Add their obvious needs for tender care and it was all Harold could do to not throw down his rifle and embrace them.  It had been close and a good thing that Bear had signaled the all clear.

And the child?

He'd been prepared to forgive the Machine and Leon and whoever else might be responsible for this unexpected delivery but at the sight of the baby, Harold throws all rancor to the wind.  

Perhaps she'd missed the train and Leon had felt the need to deliver something, like a pet tom cat needs to deposit dead mice in inopportune places.  

The child looks thin and has fever bright cheeks, all three of them do and with a pang, Harold shoulders the responsibility of their lowly condition. He's had to delegate aspects of the post-apocalyptic recovery to trusted friends, there us no way he and Ernest can do everything, but he's sometimes paused, filled with regret that he's turned over the charge of families to Nathan.  But after all, he's been an orphan the majority of his life and an uncle, of sorts, to Will Ingram, therefore unequipped for the task.

*

The kitchen and the adjoining mudroom is crowded and damp with melting sleet, thick with the smell of wet men, wet dog, wet baby.  

Harold is giddy, alive with the sensory input. Like a plant after unexpected end of drought, he drinks in the change from his typically sterile, if comfortable, environment.  He bustles about, finding blankets and starting a wash.  Then food, something simple: soup, toast, tea.  

Tea!  Resolving to set the kettle before asking about the circumstances that brought this little family to his door.  He doesn't presume the men are lovers; survival in the wastes has spawned countless new families of every stripe and coupling doesn't necessarily mean sex.

The baby is passed into to his arms and as he automatically cradles her against his chest  the question of the nature of their relationship is answered, when the short one, Lionel, helps the other, John, strip.  After popping up to plant the softest of kisses against John's lips, they move in unison, silently.  Harold turns away when John strips down to nothing, murmuring something about the first aid kit as he hurries into the kitchen.  John's well built, with a silky patch of silvered black curls, but it's the constellation of scars and the Aurora Borealis of bruises that makes him gasp.   It's bizarre - before the apocalypse, John had obviously made a career of nearly getting killed but the man with a soldier's bearing had handled the baby with a singular sweetness, as tender as any mother.  

*

He puts his foot in it, asking if the rest of their luggage is elsewhere; while adequately supplied for baby Leila's needs, there's nothing dry in their bags, save a pair of boxer shorts.  Lionel hands them to John and they are ludicrously oversized, even if John had been his proper weight and not so dreadfully thin.  The shorts remain up while John walks to the table, gripping the waistband. Retrieving Leila, he sits down with a sigh of relief.

When he suggests that Lionel retrieve the box of Arthur's things (I leave stuff so I have an excuse to visit again), the thickset stranger's face blanches, turning the sickly color of wey at the prospect of visiting the dark cellar.  John's gallant offer to shoulder the burden is breathtaking.

Lionel, if judging by accent and demeanor, is 100% pure Brooklyn, as Brooklyn as stickball, egg creams and dirtwater hot dogs. Admitting to a fear, no - a terror, sends a wave of sympathy through Harold's core. With uncharacteristic candor, he recalls his own pet fear, well the one that he can bear to admit and the results floor him.  

Gets him hot and flustered, resulting in a stirring in his shorts that seems inevitable, given the brawny little man's bizarrely brilliant response plus John's extraordinary tenderness. Harold's unaccounted for bride is almost forgotten.

Perhaps hypnotized by Leila's Cheerios raptures, he asks what seems an innocuous question, are the two of them a married?

 

Before he can finish the question, Lionel interrupts with unexpected intensity.

"Married? "That's what you asked for, yeah? A bonded couple, two guys, um gay. Kids welcome." Lionel grabs the tablet from the backpack at his feet. "We signed the contract before we left."

Harold frowns as he rapidly scans the document, his face soon matching the pale of the tablecloth. "Gentlemen, there's been a terrible mistake."

*

Fusco had wondered as much, even if the little librarian hadn't skimped on the hospitality and to tell the truth, it was a relief that his instincts had proven correct. Still, it hurts.

Before he can ask a question, Harold pivots off his chair, Leila tucked neatly on his hip as he hurries to another little room, a pantry, Fusco guesses. Harold closes the door behind him but his raised voice is still clear.

"I cannot believe....People aren't chest pieces - you can't manipulate....Do refugees have a choice? When you offer them safety and food and warmth?...."

No reason to waste good soup, Fusco drains his mug before grabbing the box of clothes. He paws through it while John gathers their bags together, placing their wet things in a garbage bag he finds in a drawer Layers, you gotta have layers, Fusco tells himself, trying to remain focused when his whole arm feels about ready to explode and their world is falling apart. He hands John a pile and they start getting dressed for their slog back to town.


	26. Chapter 26

"Wh...where are you going?"

Harold's face falls as John scoops Leila from his arms.

"Don't feel particularly welcome," grunts Fusco. "We're going back to town and then back to the...." He stops. The stadium is no longer home, no longer safe and he doesn't have a clue. The contract has a clause, a free homestead on the island if the six month trial marriage doesn't take but what if they don't make it that far? Fusco's head hurts and his face feels wet, he doesn't know he's crying until Harold hands him a dishtowel.

'I guess you overheard. I was loud enough that you can't be accused of _spying_ ," Harold says, glancing hard at John. His eyes (who could ever say they are soft and dreamy?) flick to Fusco. "Nor would you need to be a _detective_ to deduce that our lives have been manipulated. Nevertheless, I must insist that you stay, for tonight at the very least. For the baby's sake if not for your own."

His sincerity is real; Fusco gingerly places the duffel bag back on the floor and returns to his seat with an amplified groan.

"Who were you expecting?" he asked, the job as spokesman for the little family feeling more and more natural despite his sorrow. "Who did you think we were?"

"I was expecting a woman. A bride," Harold explains tersely.

Fusco fixed his gaze upon him, eyebrow cocked; after all, he had seen the man's frank appreciation of John's nude form and formed conclusions.

Harold blushes. "Look now, I am a private person and this isn't easy." He takes a deep breath, releasing it slowly, chasing it with a long gulp of hot tea. Fortified, he continues. "But I promise to be truthful; you deserve that much and more. To be perfectly frank, I consider myself a flexible man of varied tastes. Moreover, I will admit that as far as appearances go, the pair of you represent my ideal types, bar none."

His sincerity is obvious.

"Why did you ask for a woman?"

Harold and Fusco both turn to stare at John, who merely smiles against Leila', who had fallen asleep.

"Why does one do anything?" a flustered Harold replies. "I'm not trying to hide anything but my reasoning is not easy to explain. I'm...."

"A very private person," interrupts Fusco, his smile strained but genuinely friendly. The three of them share a weary chuckle, the air in the room relaxing by degrees.

Haltingly, he's so tired, Fusco gives the master of Green Gables a thumbnail sketch of the events so far, with John chiming in as necessary.

"You've been so brave," Harold says at last. "Remarkably so."

Fusco sees a change come over him, a sudden air of resolve coming over their host.

"I'd like you to stay."

"The night?"

"No," Harold says with determination. "While good natured if manipulative friends seem to have set up this match, it would be short sighted of me not to recognize a good thing in front of me."  
He reaches across the table, snagging the tablet. Placing his thumb on a square in the bottom right corner, he solemnly says, "I, Harold, take you, Lionel and John, in the bonds of trial marriage and welcome the child known as Leila, as if she were my own."

Taking the tablet, Fusco and John add their vows. "I suppose a kiss is traditional," Harold suggests, pretending to stand up, a joke if you will, but something Fusco and John understand. Something tangible, a physical reality to seal the dreamlike events of the day. Awkwardly, Fusco leans up and in, his chapped lips brushing against Harold's. He kisses John, more familiar if by the dozen or so that had come before, contentedly settling back to watch his two men kiss, not a speck of jealousy rearing its head. How could it, when everything is falling into place, perfectly right.

Distracted, no one notices the knock on the kitchen door, not until it is thrown open by a tall, well built man as well as a gust of icy wind.

Fusco's reactions are still all right, enough that he deflects the butter knife John hurls at the figure, so that it lands, sinking an inch into the hardwood of the doorframe.

"Stand down, John," Fusco barks, grabbing at him, who by now treats any unexpected intrusion as the threat of the living dead. "For Christsake, he's human," pants Fusco, who remembers a hard earned truth, that zombies can't manage doorknobs.

John blinks, then sobs, slumping back into his chair. Fusco pries Leila from his arms, where he's holding her a bit too tight and hands her, squalling, back to Harold, staring at the intruder, who tosses a small cardboard box onto the table.

"What the hell, Harold?" the stranger demands, appraising the room's contents as if he were the owner; truth be told, he's looking at Harold as if he's his property, something that doesn't sit well with the detective from Brooklyn.

"As if you don't know," Harold pronounces sternly, placing a protective arm around Fusco's shoulder, guiding him back to his chair.

"Know what?"

To Fusco, with years of interrogations under his belt, the guy really is confused. To his credit, Harold does likewise, telling his visitor to join them at the table.

"Gentlemen and Leila, I'd like to introduce my dearest friend, Nathan LeCoq."

Fusco tries not to glower, but there is something hinky about Blondie, something familiar.

Satisfied, Harold continues. "Nathan, please meet John and Harold Fusco and their daughter, Leila. My new family."


	27. Chapter 27

"You need someone to take care of _you_ ," Nathan spouts, glaring at the newcomers.

Cradling his chin with his good hand, keeping his head up, more like it, Fusco tends to agree. Harold looks pulled together but there is an air of delicacy about him, like a sweater that unravels with a single tug of yarn, like a photograph faded by rainwater.

"Look at them, Harold! You aren't a social worker."

This Nathan LeCoq, Nathan Ingram more like it (denim instead of Savile Row) is just getting warmed up.  As long as the insults being slung are aimed at him, Fusco lets them land like a warm spring shower.  He's heard worse.

But Leila, with perfect timing, sneezes violently, sending an alarming quantity of snot onto John's borrowed t-shirt. Calmly, John wipes her face with the dry hem before passing her to Harold. Sighing, he strips to the waist, earning a strangled gasp from man from Texas.

"Christ Almighty!  Now we know why Carrots over here's so tubby!"

"Nathan, please!"  But the Texan must be used to rolling over Harold's protest. 

"The tall one and the baby? It's a fucking shame Sally Struthers is probably worm food or a zombie because those two look like famine poster children!  Harold, how can you be so stupid?"

That does it.

Fusco stands, knocking his chair over with the force as he reaches over the table to grab Ingram's collar, yanking him to his feet.

 "Listen, bub," he's shouting, shoving, "You can insult me all day and it's water off a duck's back.  But you start shooting your mouth off about my baby girl?  And my guys?"  

He'd have done something right then but Harold's not stepping back but is working his way closer, eyes blazing.  Fuck, he's even closing the hand that's not supporting Leila into a stiff-armed fist and Fusco wants to laugh because the similarity between his new husband and Arthur the (angry) Aardvark is astonishing.  He can let Nathan go for Harold's sake, no question.  Then Leila sneezes, bunking up Harold's glasses and the Texan can't keep it zipped.

"I don't know how this poor little tyke fell through the cracks," Nathan says, clucking sadly. "Even with all of my guidelines and Greer's fail safes.  She should have been placed in a nice home with a good family."

Fusco's vision narrows and it's like he's seeing red.  "You....you take away the kids?"

Nathan smiles as if addressing an idiot, as if to say 'who'd want you two bozos raising a kid?'  "Yes.  It's done a world of good..."

Fusco stops listening to anything but the drumming of his heart, pulling back his right fist to smash, to ruin him and his pretty face.  

Much later, he's told how much he resembles a drunken bear.  How Nathan easily sidesteps the slow motion punch, grabbing Fusco's wrist, twisting it between Fusco's shoulder blades.  How the sharp pitched whistle isn't the tea kettle but Fusco, himself.

He doesn't know because by the time he hits the floor, all Fusco knows is horrible snap and pop of his poor wrist and the darkness which mercifully envelops him.


	28. Chapter 28

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is short.

A sound, a headache-inducing chatter, arouses Fusco's senses first.  His eyes aren't working but maybe it's just black where he is; he is strongly suspecting that he's died.  But there's that odd clacking to consider.  He inhales sharply through his nose, catching sharp medicinal odors laced with something sweet, a pleasant scent that is rife with memories.  But of what or _whom_?   

Bracing his heels against something soft, he tries to push up but finds his arms don't work, he can't even tell where his right arm is or if he even has one anymore.  He ponders this at the same he finally catches on that the nasty sound, it sounds like a cross between a dog destroying a bone and sleet hitting the surface of a cracked windshield...the ugly sound is his teeth, chattering.  

Why can't he feel his arm?

Warmth envelops him and he smells the sweet, familiar smell again, this time stronger as a soft palm caresses his forehead, pushing back his curls.  Fusco gasps, making the connection, firmly cementing his thoughts of where he rests. Clearing his bone dry throat, he only manages a croak but his Mama didn't raise a quitter so he tries it again.

"If you're here, Carter, I must be in heaven."

 

 

 

 

 


	29. Chapter 29

He goes under again before there's a reply and now Fusco is starting to feel bette, more at ease with this strange plane of existence. He's landed in a library, albeit a deserted one and if this fits his ideal place of rest as well as, say, watching the Rangers in Madison Square Garden. Not that more than a handful of people know that he can read anything more challenging than a John Grisham or Michael Crichton.

There's still the matter of his right arm being numb as fuck and the left, stiff as a board, like it's strapped down or something. But he's in his familiar brown suit and broken in loafers and when he checks his breast pocket, his reading glasses are there. Edging towards the stacks, he's debating whether to hit the 200s for religion or the 100s for philosophy, either which might clue him into what's happening, but he hears something, footsteps and quiet voices. Gathering his courage, he does what he does best - investigates.

John catches his eye first and it's like a punch in the guts in the best sort of way.  He's sleek as a cat in a bespoke black suit and a blindingly white shirt that's unbuttoned to expose a tan, gorgeous throat.  He's bigger, a good forty pounds heavier, pounds that would have made Fusco (in his opinion) plainer but the extra bulk performs a goddamn miracle on John.  

Then he sees Harold and it's a revelation.  John's appearance is a natural progression but Harold, well, Fusco didn't see this heavenly creature in the meek, good natured master of Green Gables.  This Harold? Well, if there were subtle peacocks, this guy is one but his gorgeous suit and bright waistcoat isn't the major difference.  Realizing that he's essentially a ghost in this world, Fusco inches closer, studying Harold further.  His hair isn't flat but bristles up like a minor hedgehog, with sideburns that are both eccentric and perfect.  His skin is bright instead of vaguely sallow and this man doesn't have circles around his eyes that would make a raccoon jealous. 

Those eyes... Fusco had seen their intelligence, had registered flashes of unexpected steel but this iteration's expression is strong, like titanium maybe, he thinks helplessly  feeling hypnotized..  Strong and extraordinarily competent and subtle and humorous, these are things that flash like neon behind fashionable horn rims.  The Green Gables Harold could gave taken him to bed but this one?  This one could have taken him to the moon and back.

Fusco reaches out with his left hand, the right is still so useless and numb, like it isn't even there.  His fingertips brush the silk of his waistcoat; Fusco doesn't expect Harold to gasp, to clutch himself as he shivers, the book in his hands falling helplessly to the floor.

"Finch?"

Reese springs up, bridging their distance by effortless bounds until the other man is enveloped in his arms, fully supported as Fusco retreats.

"Breech in the space-time continuum," Finch murmurs against John's throat.

John laughs, tightening his hold, his face glowing with pleasure and relief.  Harold pushes against him,

"Please release me, Mr. Reese," he requests, a note of panic marring his previous moment of calm.

"Why?"

It's not quite a whine but asked with disappointment and obvious need.

Harold squirms. "Please, Mr. Reese, my...my body is betraying me."  

John chuckles, nudging between Harold's thighs.  "Not a problem, Finch."  He stands back so that the tenting of his trousers is obvious.

They kiss, finally, and it's a fucking supernova, absolutely gorgeous as the scene returns to black with fears of inadequacy buzzing in Fusco's head and the buzzing of an electric saw in his ears.


	30. Chapter 30

He wears his nudity like a suit, leaving the en suite bathroom clad only in a brief cloud of steam. 

Harold swallows hard,  trying not to stare but it's fruitless.  It isn't as if John notices as his eyes are fixed on the baby sleeping in the wicker laundry basket next to the low slung bed. 

Closer, Harold observes signs of exhaustion mixed with twitches of nervous energy.  It had been difficult to pry John from Lionel's unconscious form; only Shaw's impressive logic and equally impressive glare had convinced both both men to retreat upstairs. 

"This is no place for the baby," and, "It's hard enough to maintain a sterile field without you goons around."

John had kissed Lionel's forehead, nodding, stripping down to nothing to start a load of gore spattered laundry.  His arms and torso were bloody, from Lionel's weeping wound and from Nathan's broken nose. 

Nathan had deserved that, Harold had admitted to himself, balancing Leila on his hip as he follows John upstairs.  Despite the gravity of the situation, he enjoyed the view.

There's a clean pair of sweats and a tshirt on the dresser, ignored by John as he drops down beside Harold; knees and thighs touching, they stare at the  baby. 

"I usually sleep with her in her sling," John murmurs, rubbing his weary face with a bruised and scraped hand.

"If she wakes up, it's fine, her sleeping with us," Harold replies.  "She looks comfortable.  And Bear will watch over her."

Hearing his name, the handsome dog stretches, then ambles over.

Harold stokes the baby's back and, speaking Dutch, tells Bear, "This is Leila. She is your puppy so watch her, please."

Bear sniffs her from head to toe, licks her ear before curling up next to the basket.

John chuckles.

"Hmm?"

"She's his puppy but I don't see the resemblance," John says, trying to smile.

"I...I didn't know you..."

"There's a lifetime of things we don't know about each other.  This is a good start," shrugs John.  He glances at the door, would have gotten up if Harold hadn't grabbed his hand.  "We don't belong downstairs."  John's muscles are rigid, like he's going to break for it but then Harold gingerly strokes his back and he relaxes.

"You and Lionel have such a head start.  I hope I can catch up."

John's mouth twists, like he's about to say something wry but then his shoulders slump.  He exams his wrists.  In the dim light, as sleet pings off the slates and the wind howls, Harold looks, too.  The pale skin is marred by bruising and deep red furrows.  In spots, the skin is broken, just like Lionel's wrists only...not.

"The same zip ties, the same time and place," John says, extending towards Harold, who takes the right hand, tugging it to his lips.  Gently, Harold turn it over, kissing the wrist that isn't septic like Lionel's, isn't a ticking time bomb that Shaw and the rest aren't, at this very moment, desperately trying to defuse.

"Lionel needs me."

John rises from the bed or tries too.  Still grasping, Harold stubbornly holds him in place with a strength that makes John's eyes narrow.  

 

"Stay," Harold orders, not needing to raise his voice to show his steel. " _Blijf_ ," he repeats more gently in Dutch and when Bear 'chuffs' in his sleep, the tension seems to dissipate.

"Anyway, while you were in the shower, I locked the door, random alpha-numerics," Harold announces, obviously joking.  The door can lock but only with a copper key the size of a dresser spoon.

"I could open a window, climb past the gables."

"And the ice and the cobblestones below wouldn't be problematic," quips Harold.  Harold, who only knows that John Fusco was once a soldier and a spy, frowns.  Probably not a problem.  Probably could make it down without a scratch.  

"I'm sorry," John apologizes.  "I'm running on vapors.  Look, I know they don't need me downstairs while they..."  A tear rolls down, followed by another, then a cascade.


	31. Chapter 31

Only steps away, there's a drawer full of handkerchiefs, not to mention the myriad of silk picket squares that the Machine showers him with, but Harold is rooted in place. Unwilling to leave John's side he does the only sensible thing, which is to remove his plain white undershirt. John takes it, dabbing at his face as the tears taper to a mere trickle; it's only then that he glances at Harold, eyes widening. With a sniffle, he exclaims, "Christ, you're hairy," before noisily blowing his nose.

It's reflexive, the way he hunches, arms try to cross over his chest. Would have crossed except John stops him.

"I'm sorry. That came out wrong."

"Oh?"

John releases his grip on Harold, his palm now hovering a few inches above Harold's chest, his expression plaintive and exhausted. Harold gets the picture, guiding it to the silk of his chest, sighing along with John at the warmth of it.

"We need to sleep, John," he says jaggedly; how long had it been since he'd been touched so reverently? Hell, even touched at all? "Lionel needs us, more than ever."

Boldly, he touches John's thigh, revelling at the coiled strength. "Shall we he help each other?"

John moves like a cat, easing Harold against the sheets. "Take off your shorts."

*

John's kiss at the conclusion of their (trial) marriage vows had been thin-lipped but firm, Harold rapidly readjusts his estimation of the man. John may have been a soldier but here, he is a sensualist, who despite the fatigue that's left him quivering, is taking Harold apart with every flick of his educated tongue.

Bracing his hands against John's chest, Harold gasps.

John immediately stops.  "Did I...did I hurt you?"

"No, oh no, on the contrary.  It's just, well, I haven't done this since before my injuries and I..."  Harold squirms, for the first time in ages feeling sorry for himself, the crippled geek, the...

"Harold?"

John sounds so sad, so worried.  Swallowing down his insecurities, Harold apologizes, admitting that at least for now, whatever they do needs to be gentle.  Very gentle.

Instead of frowning or grumbling, John smiles, brilliant even in the room's dim light. "Was gonna ask you the same thing," he admits to Harold's relief and surprise.  "We're definitely on the same page ," he continues, working his way down Harold's little belly, stopping at Harold's straining dick.

"W...why, I was going to get you off," Harold stammers as John takes him into his mouth. It's soft and warm and slippery and John's in no hurry.

Stroking John's soft hair, Harold stops worrying and starts enjoying.  "You're next," he moans, the muscles of his plump thighs straining as he tries not to thrust.  "So don't you dare fall asleep," he tries to say but nothing intelligible  comes out, not while John swallows.


	32. Chapter 32

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is very short but I promise there will be more soon.

_He's in a hotel room, a D.C. hotel room to be precise and a swank room at that's got just one bed.  Lionel, rolypoly in a plush bathrobe sits at his side, pledging himself to Harold and Harold's mission, like a knight;  somehow it works.  This rough, tough little fireplug transcendent._

_The sheets are soft and both of them are hard._

_*_

_A fierce breeze whips Harold's hair. He blinks against the sharp light as he stares across the divide that separates the two skyscrapers. John's there, dressed in indelible black and white. Harold's heart tears in two as he vaguely grasps the universe-altering sacrifice this John is about to make. "Mr. Reese!"_

Wet faced, he sits up in his snug bed, in his Green Gables, with the man he's only known as John Fusco at his side.

They aren't alone.

"Morning," says Shaw as she devours a granola bar before unwrapping another.  She is sitting crosslegged on the end of the bed, Bear at her side.  Her hair is damp and she's in fresh scrubs.  The surgery is over but what of Lionel?

Concurrently, a separate thought occurs, that he and John are quite obviously naked.  Fumbling with his glasses and pulling up the blanket, Harold manages, as only he can, an unmistakable air of dignity.

"How is he?" asks John for them both, awake and shaking off the blanket to stretch.

Shaw's eyes widen but thankfully, she declines to comment; in any other time, he might have expected her to whistle. Now, she's all business.

"Lionel's in stable condition. I had to amputate his hand and wrist.  The tissue was necrotic, there was no saving it.  He still has 2/3 of his forearm and if the antibiotics we're blasting him with work, we'll stop the sepsis in its tracks."

"Just a sec."  John slinks off the bed, grabbing the t-shirt and shorts folded atop Harold's dresser before heading to the bathroom.  Harold and Shaw stare unabashedly; he moves like a panther.

Shaw cracks a smile, punching Harold's upper arm.  "That was fast!"

 

 


	33. Chapter 33

"Joss and her guys had to leave," Shaw explains as she performs an impromptu exam on the baby; Leila's color is better and she's barely coughed. Bear sits at attention, as interested as any parent might be; Leila lunges for him, laughing.

"Szymanski and Donnelly are sitting with him now; if you don't mind them using the spare bedroom, they'll stick around. Lionel is a good guy but it takes a lot of muscle to move him."

"I'm strong. I know I'm skin and bones but I'm still strong...."

Harold gives Shaw a scathing look over John's shoulder as he hugs him, whispering into his ear, "Of course you are, John. Of course you are."

"Sorry," she returns with a hint of real sympathy in her typical sarcastic tone.

It's really wonderful how far she's come since her marriage, thinks Harold, wondering is married life will effect equally beneficial changes for himself. One can only hope.

John takes Leila and changes her diaper and clothing with remarkable efficiency.

Speaking of changing... "Sameen, if you will please excuse me, I need to dress and there's breakfast to make."

She pretends to be oblivious to the fact that he doesn't have the aplomb neccessary to stroll to the bathroom so John had done, naked as a jaybird. But then she laughs, tugging Bear's collar.

"C'mon butch," she says with a pout. "I know where I'm not wanted." And as she opens the door to leave, dog at her heels, she turns around. "Don't worry about cooking. Root has coffee brewing and has a kettle on for tea and half the village has dropped off food."

Harold squints at the window. "What time is it?"

"Half past ten. Since Lionel is still out, I figured you could use some extra shut eye." She winks at them both and leaves.

John watches Harold get dressed.  He's quiet except for a patter aimed at Leila, encouraging her to drink her bottle.  There's something on his mind, Harold can tell.

"Do you think your friend is still here?"

Nathan.  Of all the ways Nathan has disappointed him, last night was the worst.

"No, John.  I think it's safe to say that he isn't."  Harold fumbles through his tie drawer; changing his mind, he slams it shut.  Nathan...

"Who is Logan Pierce?"

Harold almost drops his argyle socks.  "Logan Pierce?  He's a neighbor. Why do you ask?"

John frowns, patting Leila's back to help her burp.  "After your friends came to help, I heard Nathan say to the handsome guy, black hair and a scar..."

"Anthony Elias.  He and Carl and Joss are married."

" I heard Nathan tell Anthony that it was a shame about Lionel.  How he couldn't fob us off on Logan Pierce now."

Harold sits down, hard, his teeth grinding.  He'd never known that one can actually 'see red' until now.  

Alarmed, John improvised, slinging Leila into Harold's arms, which reflexively cradle her.

"Breath, ok? Just breath," says John, stroking Harold's back.  It takes a minute to inhale deeply and even longer before he can speak.

"Logan lives just north of Avonlea.  He used to be a tech billionaire and now he helps as a programmer.  A damned good one, I might add.  But..."

"But?"

"He had a very nasty habit of using people.  Offering refugees such as yourself a home.  A marriage.  Only he'd grow bored and send them on their way, again and again until I...."

Harold breathes deep, exhaling tiredly. "Until the community to put a stop to it.  I'd no sooner give Logan a dog than another family to ruin."

"So Nathan..."

"... is no longer welcome in our home."


	34. Chapter 34

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another short chapter but am working on more!

The first thing Fusco notices is the pain. An all over throbbing, joints and skin, like he's running a high fever but it's his right hand that's the worst. He tries to wiggle his fingers, anything to shake off the sensation of a thousand bees having at it. Lifting his arms doesn't work, maybe they are strapped down? He's guarded too many suspects in too many hospital rooms so he knows the drill. Some are strapped to keep them from gauging their own eyes out or maybe those of the doctors and nurses, but all are strapped to prevent them from booking it. He's just awake enough to wonder which is the case; Fusco isn't certain he can lift the soft blanket that's covering him and feels not even the slightest urge to hurt anyone. Even himself.

At least he's aware that he's alive, that's good.  Right?  Fusco doesn't know what goes through a zombie's brain besides the obvious hunger for human flesh.  The thought of tearing into someone fills him with nausea; he guesses that box as a 'no'.

Thoughts buzz in his head like the bees that seem to attack his bad hand.  He think maybe it would help him to find his bearings if he could see but his eyes are gummed shut.  Trying harder to move his arms, Fusco pulls upright,  whimpering as he does.  His first instinct is to call out for Lee but he catches himself.  Lee is dead.  Isn't he?

Instead, he whimpers "John."

A hand touches his shoulder, warm and strong.  "It's me, Lionel.  It's Harold and you're safe."


	35. Chapter 35

"John..."  Aching and confused, Fusco pulls his stronger arm, his left arm hard and the strap loosens and with one more sharp yank, he's free.  Still blind, his eyes sealed shut as though he's been sleeping for centuries, Fusco makes a lucky grab at the source of the voice. His fist full of a confusing mixture of wool and silk, the last bit of adrenaline he's got is used up as he gives the man a shake.  "Lee!  Where's Lee?"

"Calm down, Lionel," the man says sounding frantic and soothing at once.  "John and Leila are fine..."

"Lee!" he whimpers, then, "Leila?"  Fusco cries, sobbing back to sleep.

*

A warm, wet towel passes gently across his eyelids and when Fusco fishes for it, it's placed in his hand so he can do the rest.  It feels like his head is a boiler, hell red and ready to crack but the dampness is like fucking heaven; Fusco wonders if steam is pouring off his skin with each swipe. A second towel replaces the first and in moments, his brain feels cooler, too.  Even when his eyes are unstuck and he's blinking unsteadily, Fusco isn't so sure about where he is or who is that at his side but the frantic fear has been replaced by something quiet, something warm and safe.  There's recognition when the man starts to hum, low and tuneful.  Fusco feels drawn, like that soft, masculine voice has been right there, reading aloud at his bedside like a father to a child.

"Where am I?" he asks first because asking 'who am I?' seems pathetic and sad. His throat barely works so the man, glasses and weird hair and worried eyes, props him up and guides a cup to his lips.  It's Gatorade, warm, his favorite, green.  He'd drinks it down and wants more but is told to wait.  "Let's see how you hold that down first."

"Wh...?"

"You are safe. I am Harold and you are Lionel Fusco.  Lionel Fusco of Green Gable."

*

He drifts in and of wakefulness, small moments punctuated by more sips of Gatorade, which is later replaced by a plain chicken broth that makes Fusco cry.  Harold does read, from Great Expectations for a while and then from The Jungle Book, Fusco guesses just to mix things up.  The words matter but the voice matters more; Fusco figures that this Harold could read an old Staten Island White Pages and it would sound just as good.

"What happened?" he eventually asks figuring that the question is broad enough to cover plenty of bases, things in the back of his head stuck in a fevered limbo.

"You are sick.  But you are getting better," is Harold's careful answer.  Fusco believes this but he knows there's more.

He doesn't blame Harold when he reaches down to scratch his right hand,  which now itches as fiercely as it burns.  When he reaches  down and finds empty space.  When he can't help but dig his nails into the bandages to dig at the ruined flesh until stitches pop and blood spouts and smears.  He scarcely feel the silvery prick at the base. of his throat and then it's blessed dark and all he wants to know is, "Where's my hand?"


	36. Chapter 36

Fusco comes to as Finch is replacing the last few stitches in the skin covering his stump. He can't stop, not even to wipe the injured man's face but Finch can whistle softly and quietly welcome Fusco back to the world.

"Can't see," groans Fusco, shaking his head when Finch apologizes.  "No, I lost my reading glasses in the _agita_.  Guess I need 'em for more than reading." 

Ignoring the action at the end of his right arm, he purses his lips, looking nearly sly, Finch thinks. 

"You could find 'em, huh?"

Finch ties off the last stitch and carefully applies an antibiotic salve to the area before wrapping it up in swaths of bandages. 

"I'm sorry, Lionel.  If you'd lost them here I'd be happy to take a look, but I'm afraid it's hopeless if they disappeared during your flight."

"Not hopeless for a god," Fusco replies, good naturedly testing the straps pinning his good left arm.

Finch's eyes bug.  "I beg your pardon?"

"Nothing," Fusco mumbles, avoiding Harold's eyes. Instead, he stares at his abbreviated arm.

"It was just a scratch."

"Yes, just a scratch. But we must count our blessings. Before things went to ruin..." Harold trails off, his voice growing soft and distant before he shakes himself back to the present. "I'd read about a college girl down in Georgia who got a small cut while ziplining with her friends. Within a week, she'd lost all four limbs."

They ruminate on that.

"I heard stories like that, too," Fusco sighs. "You...you think this is it? Because if I lose my legs, you might as well just put me down."

Finch hurriedly replies, hoping he's telling the exact truth, " Just your hand. Despite how it seemed, it was very good luck that Nathan broke your arm. If you had gone to bed last night you may not have woken up at all."

They shiverd, imagining Fusco reanimating next to them in bed, next to their helpless baby, a tender morsel for a ravenous undead.

"Shaw is an excellent surgeon and the island's antibiotics supply is topnotch now that the laboratory has been upgraded."

"Shit, not penicillin?" Fusco gasps.

"No, no, I accessed your medical files.  We used an alternative."

"How?"

The question falls flat between them and there's no sound but the ticking clock, the steady beep of Fusco's machinery and the sudden shrill whistle of a tea kettle. 

"Excuse me," Harold says, jumping up to pull it from the top of the stove.  Fusco can hear him washing his hands before there are sounds of silver spoons and clinking mugs.

It's uncanny, Harold thinks, the flickering of Lionel's eyes, the signs of knowing - but how could he?  A simple Brooklyn detective sussing out his most carefully guarded secrets in the matter of hours?

"Where's John and Leila?" Fusco asks as Harold pushes medical equipment aside to put down their mugs; Harold's green tea and Fusco's broth.

"Drink first." Harold steadies Fusco's back while raising the mug to his lips.  

It's plain chicken broth, just a pinch of salt and a hint of celery but to Fusco, it's as good as Thanksgiving.  He drinks too fast, sputtering and coughing.  Instead of chastising, Harold cleans up, answering Fusco's question when he's done.

"They're at Bill and Nick's house.  Family friends, you were probably too out when they were here earlier.  Sameen doesn't want you to catch their germs..."

"Their?" Fusco interrupts, alarmed.

"John and Leila both have a a serious cold, however John hasn't developed bronchitis." Not yet, Harold doesn't add, ignoring the tickling in the back of his throat.  "And while you're still running a fever, there may be something you could spread to them.  They should be back in a few days, a week at most."

Fusco squints.  "You don't look so good, yourself."

Harold sips his tea before turning his head to sneeze.  "I think you may be right," he replies unhappily.  Desiring to change the subject, he says, "Tell me about Lee."


	37. Chapter 37

"Lee's my boy. _Was_ my boy," Fusco tells him, helplessly blinking back tears that he would have wiped away if he could have. "Grab my wallet from my jeans," Fusco continues, his mouth stopping in mid word as he begins sobbing in earnest.

"Lionel, dear!"

"My wallet...left it at my place.  burned down."

"Your, your only picture?" 

Fusco nods.  Allowing Harold to wipe his face and to give him more sips of broth, he soon continues.  "Our old neighborhood, our building, the school, the church were burned during the riots."

During the first weeks of the undead invasion, many of the healthy, mad with grierf, confusion and utter despair, had taken to the streets in an orgy of looting and destruction, killing more than the zombie menace.

"I'm so sorry," Harold tells him, the honest sincerity of his voice saying more than his simple words.  

Fusco shrugs, trying to make light of things. "Couldn't see the picture clear anyway without my glasses."

Despite the fact that Harold had requested a period of silence from the Machine, his earwig suddenly beeps audibly, Morse Code, perhaps Ernest's attempt at compromise. "Give Fusco his box," she says.

"What's that?" Fusco asks sharply, the dull pain in his eyes transformed by sharp obsercation.  Caught out, Harold decides to allow his new husband at least partial satisfaction.  He removes the device from his ear, rolling it in his palm to show Fusco.  "I am a programmer," he admits.  "In charge of several committees that might need my guidance at any moment, night or day. However, it was nothing important. I'll just turn it off."

"Harold?"

Fusco's voice is free of tears, flat and heavy, the firm but neutral voice Harold can imagine him using while performing an interrogation. But am I a criminal?

"Yes, Lionel?" he replies, almost flustered.

"You aren't the only one who knows Morse," Fusco flatly replies, adding, "I think she means the cardboard package we picked up at the train station, though why it could be mine, I can't tell you."

"Let me get it," Harold agrees, relieved to discover it wasn't smashed in the previous night's melee.  Upon opening, there's a notecard upon which  'Lionel Fusco' is written in fine script.  A small leather case is opened, revealing a handsome pair of glasses.

Harold places them on Fusco, noticing for the first time his husband's delicately molded pug nose, the only refined feature on his rough hewn, good natured face.

Fusco's deeply contended grunt of pleasure sparks a visceral reaction within Harold, who was for a period long ago the target of bullies who relished stealing his glasses.  Sometimes even breaking them.

"These are perfect," Fusco says, glancing about the large farmhouse kitchen.  "I shoulda. been wearing prescriptions for years but I kept making due with cheap drugstore 'cheaters'."

Spying a nearly invisible camera tucked in a nearby curio cabinet, Fusco beams. "Thank you."

Confused by it all, Harold admits, "I had nothing..."

Still smiling, Fusco gives Harold a long, appraising look as he interrupts.  "Wasn't talking to you, Bub"

 

 


End file.
